


the golden boys

by princesskay



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description of Corpses, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23462395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: When the murder of the son of a prominent senator is linked to the unsolved homicides of three gay men in Georgia, Bill and Holden are sent down to assist the local police in an investigation fraught with political upheaval. The focal point of the slayings appears to be a gay bar called the Golden Falcon, owned and operated by a face from Bill’s past. Meanwhile, Holden proposes a risky strategy that makes him question everything. As the hunt for the smart, elusive killer intensifies, old wounds and new revelations are forced into the light of day.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 181
Kudos: 228





	1. unearthed

**Georgia, 1950**

At age eighteen, Bill ran away from home.

When the enlistment papers came in the mail, his mother cried and begged him not to go. He was her only son - her only child - and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him after everything she had already lost over the course of her life. 

He told her he wanted to serve his country. He told her that the Army would offer a career path once the conflict in Korea was over. He told her nearly all of his friends had already enlisted, a year before he did; but the truth was, he needed to get as far away from home as he could, beyond all the memories and strife those four walls held. More than anything, he needed to escape the rumors and prejudice of their small Pennsylvanian town where his history and himself seemed to be set in stone, a jagged path winding in the footsteps of his father. He imagined freedom beyond the suffocating, impoverished borders of his life, and he was willing to go to war to get it. 

The day he left home, he hugged and kissed his mother goodbye, and promised he wouldn’t be long. The image of her standing huddled on the porch, her arms wrapped around herself with tears streaking down her cheeks, burned into the back of his mind while he walked away, but her sadness couldn’t change his mind.

He was sent to Fort Benning in Georgia for bootcamp where any idea of freedom and independence was quickly stamped out by rules, regiments, and a barking drill sergeant. The Army was bent on smothering his rebellious streak and molding his tenacity into something it could use, but try as his superior officers might, he never stayed on the ground long. None of them knew he’d already learned to get back up from blow after painful blow long before they got their hands on him. The first few months were some version of hell, but too stubborn to regret his decisions, he laid in bed each night shoving the idea of leaving far to the back of his mind. 

The only person in Georgia that he knew was a young man by the name of Edward Bertram, a fellow classmate from highschool that he’d played football with. They hadn’t known each other very well in school, but the dire bleakness of the Army made them fast friends. 

It was Edward who first showed him the private underbelly of Columbus, Georgia, the major city just beyond where they were stationed. They would sneak out when they could, hitch a ride into town, and spend the night carousing through a series of bars and women until they reached Edward’s ultimate destination -  _ The Golden Falcon.  _

Known by regulars as simply “the Falcon,” the bar was located in a half-basement in the seedier side of town. The narrow, concrete steps led down into a dark, smoky underworld where the door was guarded by two imposing bouncers who diligently asked for names and IDs. You could only get in if you knew someone else who could “verify” you, and Bill quickly learned why. 

At first glance, the bar could have been mistaken for any other lounge across the city, but once Bill and Edward got past the gatekeepers, the distinctions became obvious.

Jazz music played over raucous conversation and air dense with cigarette smoke, booze, sweat, and God knew what else. Along one wall was a row of leather upholstered booths where men crowded on top of one another, some in other men’s laps, playing cards or simply sharing a beer. The other end of the bar was occupied by two pool tables where men gathered around to bet on winners and losers, bodies hanging familiarly onto one another. On the concrete wall behind them was the bar’s namesake - a painted mural of a golden falcon, it’s wings extended to span the length of the wall. The bar was stocked with a variety of beer and spirits, but the rules were clear - there was a limit to drinks, and if anyone got too out of hand, they were quickly ushered out of the bar. There was to be no fighting or otherwise flamboyant behavior that might attract police attention. And under no circumstances was there to be any hanky-panky in the bathroom stalls. 

It was here that Bill witnessed two men kissing for the first time. Strangely, it wasn’t the lascivious, lustful type of activity his mother and reverend had warned him about; the atmosphere was light and joyous, and men only kissed out of something that could have been construed as genuine affection. 

For most of the first few trips, Bill spent his time hiding out at the bar with a dwindling pack of cigarettes and several stiff drinks. He didn’t know why after the first time he didn’t tell Edward he wasn’t interested in going back. He declined every man that approached him at the bar with batting eyelashes or pawing hands, crooning things like “handsome” and “sexy.” It didn’t give him any type of thrill to say no, but he never could say yes either. 

His hideout spot at the far left corner of the bar was quickly invaded by a more tenacious, yet unobtrusive man. At first, the bartender, a tall, fit man with thick, coppery red hair and sharp green eyes, would simply watch Bill while he poured drinks for the other patrons. They quietly sized one another up for the first three nights until the fourth time Edward dragged Bill along with him to the Falcon when the man approached him. 

“You new here?”

“You could say that.” Bill replied, “My buddy, Eddie, he made me come.”

“Made you?”

Bill nodded, taking a drag of his cigarette. He could tell by the bartender’s mannerism, though much more discreet, that he was just as interested as the other suitors who had approached him in nights past. 

“What’s your name?” The man asked, a coy smile tilting his mouth. 

“Bill.”

“Sunny.” The bartender said, extending his hand for a shake. “That’s S-U-N-N-Y. Not an ‘O’. I’m no daddy’s boy.”

Bill chuckled. “Okay, Sunny with a ‘U’. I suppose that suits you better.”

Sunny leaned forward to brace his elbows on the bar. “You want something stronger than that beer?”

“No, I’m good.”

“You sure? It’s on the house.”

“I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You can’t. I own this place.” Sunny replied, smiling devilishly. “Besides, I like you.”

“You like me? We just met.”

“I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

From that night forward, Bill agreed to go with Edward only so that he could sit at the bar and talk with Sunny. He told himself it was because Sunny didn’t pressure him into sex or try to touch him. He didn’t ask Bill if he was gay or why he kept coming when he clearly wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone. He didn’t ask about Bill’s past either. He didn’t ask about anything important. They talked about music, films, books, anything at all except for personal details that might have misconstrued their relationship into something more. 

They went on like that for several months, right up until Bill and Edward were almost done with basic training. Bill went into the Falcon that night to tell Sunny that he was being shipped out to Korea in a few weeks, and he probably wouldn’t be back soon - if ever. A part of him was mourning the loss of the friendship, the idea of the joy and freedom of the Falcon being replaced by war. But he wasn’t scared. It was what he had signed up to do. 

It was a hot, muggy evening, the Georgia air thick with humidity. The Falcon wasn’t particularly packed, but the cave-like atmosphere was making him sweat through his shirt. He went straight to the bar where Sunny was already pouring him a drink. He took the shot of whiskey, and announced that he’d gotten his orders. 

“So, after three weeks you’ll be gone?” Sunny asked, crestfallen. 

“Yeah. For awhile.” Bill said, “Maybe forever.”

Sunny had stared at him for a long moment. Bill could hear the bass of the music thumping in the background, his chest surging even harder. 

Sunny abandoned his post, and came out from behind the bar. He grabbed onto Bill’s hand, the first real physical contact they’d ever had between them. Bill was too shocked to resist as Sunny dragged him by the wrist down the narrow hall to the bathrooms. Shoving the door open with his shoulder, he pulled Bill inside with him, and locked the door behind them. The flimsy door barely muted the sound of the thudding music from beyond, but it was just enough silence for Bill to hear his own rapid breathing rasping just above Sunny’s. 

Sunny kissed him then, deliberately and desperately. They crashed into one of the stalls, Bill neither protesting nor responding. He let it happen. He let Sunny touch him, let himself feel it, let the relief pour through his body, a rainstorm over drought-dry ground. 

After, Sunny got up off his knees. 

“I’m going to miss you.” He said quietly, tears springing to his eyes. 

“Me too.” Bill said, focusing on zipping his pants. 

Sunny turned and left the bathroom abruptly, a hand over his mouth to cover a building sob. 

Bill left the Falcon that night and never went back. Three weeks later, he was deployed to Korea, and by the time he came home, shell-shocked and exhausted in every physical and mental way possible, he’d pushed Sunny far to the back of his mind. He took an assignment in Virginia, far from Georgia and the memories of the past. He ran away again, leaving the Falcon and Sunny to rot like old possessions in a forgotten mausoleum. 

~

**Virginia, 1983**

At six o’clock in the evening, the BSU basement rings hollow solitude. Somewhere overhead, Bill can hear pipes creaking, but he’s otherwise alone. A steady diet of cigarettes keeps the thought of dinner from his mind while he hunches over the reports, witness statements, and crime scene photos spread out across his desk. His scribbles notes on a legal pad fill three pages on victimology and a rough profile of the killer. He hasn’t yet arrived at strategy, the suggestions he will give the local police to focus the investigation. 

Bill sighs as he pushes aside other photos to pluck out a picture of the latest victim. The killer had mutilated her body with multiple tools or instruments, a crime driven by both anger and a lust for control. It’s these pictures, the ones of the victims smiling and healthy, that keeps him focused and driven despite their massive workload. 

Atlanta, despite its failures, also had its successes which had catapulted them from a cold case call to the first call, just as Ted had wanted, but despite his pull with the director, the Bureau remains wary of pouring thousands of dollars into what is still considered an inexact science. While they’ve been given a handful of new recruits for training, Bill and Holden are shouldering the brunt of the workload. Meanwhile, the FBI brass’ skepticism is countered by the hundreds of requests they receive weekly from local police authorities who are hoping the BSU can crack their case wide open. Bill is also saddled with new agent training while Holden gets the unenviable job of choosing which cases they work and which they reject as not worth their time. Nights like these, staying late to pour over case files, are becoming an exhausting routine.

Bill glances up sharply when he hears the outer door of the BSU creak open and slam shut again. He grabs his empty coffee cup and wanders out of his office. Entering the bullpen, he sees Holden depositing his briefcase on the desk, and his suitcase on the floor. 

“You’re back.” Bill observes. 

Holden spins around, his hand leaping to his chest. “Oh, Bill. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Sorry.” Bill says, crossing the room to where Holden is unlatching his briefcase. “I figured I would get that profile for the Lincoln, Montana case finished up.”

“How’s it going?” Holden asks, pulling several case files from within his briefcase.

“Okay.” Bill says, “I’ll have you review it when I’m done.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“It’s my third one today. It needs another set of eyes.”

Holden pauses from unpacking his briefcase. His eyes soften as he regards Bill in the dim light of the bullpen. Bill can see the dark circles forming under his eyes, exhaustion creeping in despite the faint smile on his mouth. 

“Okay.” Holden murmurs, giving a reassuring nod. “I’ll look at it in the morning.”

“Great.” Bill says, digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. He mutters a curse when he realizes he left his lighter on the desk. 

“Have you had dinner?” Holden asks. 

“No. I’ll figure something out when I get home.”

“You should take a break.” Holden says, “I was just dropping this stuff off before I head home. We should go get something.”

“I don’t know, Holden. I’m bushed.”

“We could do carry-out.” Holden says, “What do you have to drink in your refrigerator?”

“Whiskey.” 

“I’m okay with that.”

Bill frowns, and braces his hands on his hips. “You don’t want to go home first? You just got back from California.”

“I’m good.” Holden says, shrugging amiably. 

Bill scoffs, and lifts his hands. “Okay. Fine. But don’t you see enough of me?”

“Not as much as I used to.” Holden mutters as he turns back to finish unpacking his briefcase. 

Bill purses his lips as the quiet remark reaches his taxed subconscious. He spends all day analyzing the behavior of strangers, but somehow he hadn’t expected the undertone of dismay in Holden’s voice. 

Bill grunts a choked laugh. “What? You miss me?”

Holden drops the lid of his briefcase shut, and snaps the latches shut with a firm push. He slowly lifts his eyes to meet Bill’s. 

“Maybe.” He says, quietly, his tone stripped of any levity. 

Bill swallows hard, cutting a glance toward the floor. They don’t have a lot of time these days for quiet conversation. They barely have time for jokes, but this is not a joke. Holden’s eyes are screaming something quiet yet fiercely longing, a riptide underneath deep, still waters. 

Bill clears his throat. “Pizza okay with you?”

“Yeah.” Holden replies after a beat. 

Bill shoots him a forced smile. “You sure? I’m going to order it with everything.”

“That’s fine. I’ll pick the olives off, and give them to you.” Holden says, smiling sheepishly. 

“Fair enough. Let me grab a few things from my office, and then we can go.”

Holden nods in agreement, and Bill strides back into his office. He stands over the unfinished profile and the pictures of the dead girls for a long moment before he closes his eyes, seeing Holden’s hopeful gaze plastered over the viscera. Silently, he vows to himself not to think of blood and death anymore tonight. 

~

The light from the television casts white and blue light across the pizza box, greasy napkins, and the nearly empty bottle of whiskey scattered on the coffee table. It’s barely pushing ten, but Bill can tell that Holden is one step away from being wasted as he expressively details the rigorous case he’d just come off of in California. 

“And God - you know, half the time these local cops want to call us in just to take the heat off their backs for a second.” Holden says, taking a generous gulp of his whiskey, “They dragged me into the family interview, Bill. So this guy - the father of this girl who was just brutally murdered - is sitting there across from me, and I’m expected to tell him that we have some kind of lead or suspect. He says, ‘what have you got so far?’ And so I told him my profile, and it was detailed - I even had the make and model of his car right. We didn’t know that at the time, but anyway … this guy goes, ‘so that’s it?’”

“They don’t understand.” Bill says, “They’re grieving, looking for answers.”

“I know. God, I know.” Holden says, leaning back against the couch cushions with a weary sigh. “I’m just exhausted.”

Bill takes a slow drag of his cigarette, letting the nicotine rush his veins as he watches Holden sink into the cushions, his cheeks flushed with alcohol. His knee is pushing up against Bill’s, incidental yet firm contact. Bill doesn’t pull his leg away. 

“I know. So am I.” Bill says, “You should take a day off, get some sleep. I can cover for you on Monday.”

“You know I can't do that. I’ll be fine. It would just be more manageable if I hadn’t been through three different time zones in two week’s time.”

“I’ll take the next long distance one.”

“No.” Holden says, “You have Brian here. That’s why we agreed you would take more of the teaching and I would do the out-of-state consults. He needs his dad here.”

“And you need rest. No offense, but you look like shit.”

Holden’s glazed eyes slip open to peek up at Bill from beneath his eyelashes. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks.”

Bill checks his watch. “Christ, it’s getting late.”

“You’re right.” Holden says, dragging himself up from the cushions with a grunt. “I think I’ve out-stayed my welcome.”

“I don’t think so.” Bill says, putting a hand on Holden’s arm to keep him from trying to get up. “You’re shit-faced. I’m not letting you drive like this.”

“I’m okay-”

“No, you aren’t.” Bill says, firmly. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Bill, I can’t let you do that.”

“Come on.” Bill says, ignoring his protests. He gets to his feet, and grasps Holden by the elbow to guide him upright.

Holden sways, leaning into Bill’s chest with a muted groan. “Shit. You’re right.”

“I know I am.” Bill says, chuckling softly. “I’m not putting you behind the wheel like this. Come on.”

Holden’s complaints dwindle as Bill slips an arm around his waist, and leads him carefully out of the living room. They make slow, shuffling progress down the hallway until they reach the door of Bill’s bedroom. Bill doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He guides Holden to the bed, and deposits him gently to the sheets. 

Holden spills back against the pillow, humming a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Bill.”

“Don’t thank me yet. If you puke in my bed, you’re going to be the one cleaning it up in the morning.”

Holden chuckles deliriously as Bill tugs his shoes off his feet, and tosses them on the ground. 

Straightening, Bill braces his hands on his hips, and peruses Holden’s limp, drunken body sprawled across his bed. A wry smile tugs at his mouth. 

Not even the prospect of sleeping on the couch could arouse his frustration. He’s just glad Holden is back from California in one piece; somehow, every time he leaves, Bill is worried something bad will happen, that he’ll come back home altered in some irreversible way. He could call it his naturally protective fatherhood intuition, but it doesn’t feel like his concern for Brian; it feels worse, like a fist wrapped around his chest, not letting him breathe until he lays eyes on Holden, whole and well, again. 

Bill’s whiskey-soaked brain gives an attempt at warding off the oozing, vulnerable thoughts, but Holden is whispering his name imploringly into the darkness. 

“What?” 

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.” Holden mumbles, “There’s enough room here.”

Bill scowls. “What?”

Holden slides across the mattress, making room beside him. He pats the sheets. “Come on. Get in.”

Bill exhales a sigh that’s supposed to sound strict or intimidating. 

“Come on.” Holden murmurs again, crooking his finger at Bill. 

“I’ve spent plenty of nights on the couch. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, please.” Holden says, “I feel bad enough invading your house and taking your bed. Just lay down.”

Bill hesitates a moment longer before crawling onto the bed beside Holden. He tells himself that it’s the whiskey. He isn’t quite drunk enough for those kinds of excuses, yet he clings to it as Holden drags the sheets overtop of them and snuggles down against the pillows with a contented sigh. 

For a long time, Bill stares into the darkness, trying to ignore the sensation of Holden’s body heat creeping underneath the sheets to warm his own limbs. He starts counting Holden’s breaths as they dwindle, getting slower and heavier as he falls into a deep slumber. The distraction lasts mere minutes before Holden becomes blissfully unaware. 

Bill fights the urge for as long as he can, but he’s fucking tired and just tipsy enough to let his inhibitions slip. He rolls over, carefully wrapping his arm around Holden’s waist. Holden doesn’t stir as Bill shifts closer until his chest is flush with Holden’s back. He can feel Holden’s shoulder blades against his chest, swelling with every deep breath and fluttering as his lungs deflate. There’s something soothing about his smaller frame wrapped up beneath Bill’s, the cadence of his breaths, the warm, clean smell of his skin. Bill is asleep beside him in minutes. 

~

Bill is awoken the next morning by the shrill ring of the telephone cutting through the early, Saturday morning haze. His dry eyelids crack open to the wash of sunlight cutting past the drapes, an indicator of just how long he’s been asleep. Usually he’s up and moving with the sunrise, but something had kept him rooted in dreams, too content to face reality. 

As Bill lifts his head from the pillow, the figure in the bed beside him comes into focus. Holden had rolled onto his back and spread out his limbs in the middle of the night. One arm is flung over his head while the other rests on his belly where his shirt is bunched up around his ribs. Under the sheets, they’re connected at the knees, but a radiating warmth is luring Bill closer. 

Bill frowns as the details of the previous night come back to him. His chest thuds, a mild panic swelling in the back of his mind. For half a second, he’s afraid he’s forgotten doing something inappropriate, but all of his memories are quickly accounted for - and he can’t believe he accused himself of doing something like that in the first place. 

Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, Bill disentangles his legs from the sheets, and scrambles out of the bed to get to the ringing phone. Staggering down the hall and into the kitchen, he grabs the phone from the cradle, and braces a hand against the counter. 

“Hello?” He says, panting from the short sprint across the house. 

“Bill.” Ted says, “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s fine.” Bill says, rubbing a hand over his forehead in an attempt to force his thoughts into order. “I, uh … It’s Saturday, sir.”

“I know, and I apologize in advance.” Ted says, “But I just got a call from Senator Lindower in Georgia.”

Bill frowns. “I’m sorry … Who?”

“George Lindower.” Ted says, “We attended law school together. He’s a Senator in Georgia now.”

“Oh. May I ask why he was calling you on Saturday?”

“His son.” Ted says, “Andrew. He’s been killed.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“So was I.” Ted says, “He asked for our help.”

Cradling the phone with his shoulder, Bill turns to lean back against the counter. Daylight spills through the sliding glass door that leads out into the backyard where the morning is unfolding in sunlit splendor. Bill’s stomach knots. 

“Forgive me, sir, but we can’t investigate a homicide unless we’ve been asked in by the police.” Bill says, “Does Senator Lindower understand that?”

“Well, I would have told him the same thing except that we already have been invited - two months ago.”

“We were?”

“Yes. I believe Holden worked up the profile.” Ted says, “Over the past year and a half, three men in Columbus, Georgia have been found tortured and either stabbed or strangled.”

Bill grips the phone tighter. The recollection of the case is dim since Holden had worked primarily on the profile, but he had peeked at the files out of pure, twisted curiosity. 

“Your old stomping grounds.” Holden had remarked. 

Bill didn’t remember telling Holden that he’d been stationed at Fort Benning, but it didn’t matter at that point. He was too concerned by the details of the case - the fact that all of the men were rumored or admitted to being gay, that one of them was an Army private, that another had disappeared from a place far too familiar to his buried memories of the past, the Golden Falcon. 

“I thought that went cold.” Bill says, clearing his throat. 

“Based on the scarce details of Andrew’s death that I have, I believe he could be the fourth in the serial.” Ted says, “It’s enough to get us in, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t know, to be honest. I’d have to see all of the case files, do some more ground work.”

“Good. Because you and Holden leave on Monday.” Ted says, “Senator Lindower is friends with Director Wyman as well. We’ve agreed we need to help him with this matter.”

_ You’ve agreed?  _ Bill thinks, disgust roiling in the pit of his stomach. He isn’t one to complain or question orders, but getting involved in a homicide that might have a shoestring connection to a serial to do a favor for a friend doesn’t sit right with him. But he can’t say that to Ted, let alone the director.

“Okay.” Bill says, at length. “What about the local police?”

“I’ve already put in a call. I’m sure Senator Lindower has too. They’ll be expecting you on Monday.” 

“We’ll be down there for the duration, sir?”

“Yes. Whatever it takes to catch the bastard.” Ted says, “I’ll call Holden after we hang up.”

“No, no, It’s okay.” Bill says, “I’ll call him. He just got back from California and I know it was a rough one.”

“Very well. Have a good weekend, Bill.” 

“Thanks. You do the same.” 

Bill listens to the dial tone hum as the phone slips away from his ear. He turns slowly to place it back in the cradle. Glancing around the quiet, sunlit kitchen, he feels his stomach begin to churn with a coarse mix of fear and dread. 

He hasn’t thought about Fort Benning, or Columbus, or the Falcon in years. He’d done his best to bury those parts of his life - the parts that ashame and terrify him; but after studying human behavior for over ten years, he should have known that in time, all secrets find a way to unearth themselves. 


	2. the golden boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Holden arrive in Columbus, Georgia to assist the investigation into Andrew Lindower's death, but they are met with resistance from the local police and the victim's family.

At two o’clock on a Saturday, the BSU office is deserted and quiet save for the muted rustle of flipping pages. Holden thumbs absently through the ME’s report on the third victim in the Columbus slayings while he peeks a glance across the basement at Bill who is preparing a pot of coffee for them while they revisit the profile Holden had worked up two months ago. 

Bill hadn’t woken him until past eleven this morning. Holden’s eyes had opened to the early afternoon sunlight and the haze of cigarette smoking, Bill sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. His head was pounding, but he’d been more concerned with his drunken behavior the night before. Sleeping in the same bed with Bill had seemed innocent enough to his inebriated logic, but in the raw light of morning, he could glimpse the undertone of tension elongating between them. 

Bill hadn’t mentioned it. He’d cut straight to the chase, explaining that they would be leaving for Georgia on Monday morning. After breakfast and showers, they’d headed straight back to the office to dig out the old case files. The reports from Andrew Lindower’s case were sitting on the fax machine when they arrived. 

Holden compares the case now, a frown wrinkling his brow. 

The senator’s son had been found dead in a dark alley on the wrong side of town, several miles and tax brackets away from his parents’ home where he’d been staying for the summer between college semesters. His body had been mutilated, and he had been brutally sodomized. The autopsy report cited the gunshot wound in his chest as cause of death, but he’d also suffered blunt force trauma along with the other atrocities that had been committed on his body. The toxicology report noted drugs and alcohol in his system at the time of death. 

Ignoring the gunshot wound, which differs from the other three cases, Holden can easily see how Ted linked the young man’s death to the others. He doesn’t always remember the state the case is from or the names of the police officers or even the victims; but the moment he sees the photographs of the crime scene, the profile he’d created, whether two weeks ago or two months ago, always comes rushing back to him. He can visualize a rough outline of the unsub, not a face or a name but more of a feeling in the dark. Andrew’s scene has the same tone and subtext of anger and a need for control as the other three.

“There’s never been a gun before.” Holden says, leaning back in his chair to peruse the ME’s photograph of the gunshot wound that had perforated Andrew’s chest. 

Bill carries two steaming cups of coffee back to the desk, and sits one in front of Holden. 

“It’s an escalation.” He says.

“It’s less personal than stabbing.” Holden says, “But the pre-mortem torture and mutilation is the same.”

“The others were strangled or stabbed. Maybe Andrew put up more of a fight.”

Holden sets aside the photo of Andrew to glance over the other three victim’s case files. “The others were smaller, of slighter build. Andrew played football in highschool and college. He was an athlete.”

“The killer bit off more than he could chew?”

“I don’t think it’s that.” Holden says. “I think he’s getting cockier. He’s gotten away with it three times before, and this time, he took someone who would guarantee a more tenacious police investigation. He dumped Andrew in a public place just like all the others. He’s never once tried to conceal the body.” 

“It’s the thrill of the hunt.” Bill says, shifting closer to the desk to peer over Holden’s shoulder at the photographs. “Seducing these men, and getting them to go with him only to reveal to them that he’s a sadist who gets off on their pain.” 

“You think?” Holden murmurs. 

“It would make sense why he switched to a gun. Their death is secondary to the seduction and torture. It’s a natural end to what he does to them. A gun is faster than trying to manually strangle them, and it's not as messy or taxing as stabbing.” 

“It’s not about the killing.” Holden says, nodding slowly. 

Bill drags the chair out from behind Gregg’s desk, and sits down next to Holden to scan the stacks of police reports and pictures. He mutters a sigh as he takes Andrew’s picture from among the numerous shots. 

“Still, it’s going to be hard to convince the local cops it’s the same guy.” Bill says. 

“We have to show them that MO is not the same as signature.” Holden says, “The signature with this guy is the pain and domination he inflicts on his victims. Whether he stabs or shoots them in the end doesn’t matter. It’s about the pre-mortem behavior, the torture that ensures him absolute domination and control.”

“I know that, and you know that.” Bill says, “But we’re coming into a very high-profile case based on thin reasoning and a whole lot of nepotism and backdoor politics. I’m not expecting the locals to welcome us with open arms.”

“It could be to their benefit.” Holden says, “I’m sure they don’t want all the heat and scrutiny that’s bound to come with a Senator’s son’s killer going free. Lindower is probably already breathing down their necks, one day after his son’s death.”

Bill takes a sip of his coffee, and shakes his head. “What do you think are the chances that Ted told Lindower his son’s case could be connected to the murder of three gay men?”

“Highly doubtful.” Holden scoffs, “It’s the deep South. We’re going to be stepping on a few toes with this one.”

“Great.” Bill mutters, dropping Andrew’s picture into the rest of the mess scattered across Holden’s desk. “We just need to be as prepared as possible. The sooner we wrap this up the better.” 

“Here’s my original profile.” Holden says, handing a stapled pack of papers over to Bill. “There’s only a few things I would add based on this new scene, but most of it fits.” 

Bill scans the first page.  _ White male. Age 25-35. Abusive childhood. No greater than highschool education. Possible military, short stint if not dishonorably discharged due to issues with authority. Record for assault. Middle class, blue collar job. Narcissistic personality making interpersonal relationships difficult. Lives alone or has a submissive partner that would look the other way. Previous knowledge of the victims, circulates in the same social groups.  _

He taps the last sentence. “You think he knew the victims.”

Holden nods. “These are all homosexual men in the South. They’re careful. They wouldn’t go with anyone they didn’t know or someone they thought might be an angry straight guy. I told the cops when I first consulted that they needed to win the trust of the victim’s friends and social circles, that they probably knew the killer. I wouldn’t be surprised if they already interviewed him.”

“What did they have to say about that?” 

Holden shrugs. “That they couldn’t get anyone to talk to them, that the people they approached were hostile towards authorities.”

“Did you believe them?”

“I believe they didn’t try that hard. The sense I got from Detective Wilson, who was lead on the case, was that he was only reaching out because the family of the latest victim was demanding answers, and he just wanted a quick fix.” Holden says, glancing across his desk at Andrew’s face plastered among the other already forgotten victims. “I’m sure they’ll try harder now that a politician’s son is dead.” 

“I have no doubt there’s some truth to it.” Bill says, “Police have spent more time trying to eradicate the homosexual presence than protect these men. I’ve seen it in every precinct across the country, and I can tell you it’s only going to get worse the deeper south we go. How do you propose we win their trust?”

“Well, they’re not going to be happy it could be someone they know. But I think we need to start with the club … what was it called?” Holden shuffles through his notes, frowning as he tries to recall the particulars of the case. “Two of the victims were tied to it …”

“The Golden Falcon.” Bill says, quietly. 

Holden’s searching pauses as he glances up slowly to meet Bill’s gaze. Something in the back of his mind niggles and his stomach chills, a burst of intuition that he’s honed after years of studying the nuances of human behavior. A lie always rests in the eyes, and the eyes betray the wounds of the past. Bill’s eyes are sad right this moment, a glimmer of concealed pain that might have gone unnoticed by someone else. 

Holden swallows hard. “Right.” 

Bill’s nostrils flare with a deep breath as he glances away. There’s a slight tremor in his fingers as he pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket, and taps one free. 

“The, um … the first victim disappeared from the club.” Holden says, his gaze bouncing between the twitch in Bill’s jaw and the police report. “And the third victim, Benjamin Harkness, was an Army private who had been seen there on multiple occasions.” 

Bill snaps his lighter shut, and inhales a deep breath of smoke. “I’m sure it’s not a coincidence.”

“No, it can’t be.” Holden murmurs. 

There’s a stretch of silence as Bill drags his cigarette from his mouth, and tilts his head back to blow a stream of smoke at the ceiling. His fingers twitch around their grip on the cigarette. 

Holden tries to tamp down his curiosity, but he knows Bill’s nervous tics far too well. 

“Did you ever hear about it?” He asks, sliding Bill a careful, tempered gaze. “When you were stationed at Fort Benning? It’s really close to the base.”

Bill scoffs, his gaze flicking from the ceiling to Holden to pin him with an annoyed scowl. “I don’t know, Holden. That was thirty years ago, before I got shipped out to Korea.”

“Right.”

“How would I have heard about it?” Bill presses, “You think I was spending my free time in bootcamp patronizing clubs for homos?”

“No.” Holden says, holding up an apologetic hand. “But Private Harkness sure was.”

Bill huffs a sigh, and glances away, tapping cigarette ashes to the concrete floor. “Yeah, and now he’s dead because of it.”

Holden turns his focus back to the case file where the photos of Harkness’s mutilated body are on full display. The private had been young and lean, slight for someone going into the Army. He was gay, and thus maybe had something to prove. Holden could work up a profile on the victim based on that observation alone, and he wonders if the killer had the same thought process and if it had impacted his decision to pick Harkness.

Clearing his throat, Holden tries to push aside his lingering curiosity about Bill’s reaction, how such a small fraction of truth could equate a younger Bill, thirty years ago, a little too closely to the victim. 

“Anyway, I think that’s where we should start.” Holden says, quietly. “Chances are, the killer is a regular at the club too. It might even be his hunting ground.”

Bill nods, and drains the last of his coffee. 

“I need a refill.” He says, sighing aloud as he rises from his chair. “You want more?”

“No thanks, I’m good.” Holden says, shaking his head. 

He tries to focus on the profile, but his gaze slips across the room to watch Bill’s shoulders as he hunches over the coffee pot. A question rises in his mind, and despite how much he respects Bill and their friendship, he knows he can’t just forget about it; and maybe, once they’re down in Georgia in the depths of the investigation, some things will be boiled to the surface, drawn free like infection from an old wound. 

~

The flight out of Dulles leaves bright and early at seven o’clock on Monday morning. Once they land, Bill and Holden rent a car, and head straight for the precinct in Columbus. 

There’s only a few people waiting in the lobby, and the station is mostly quiet in the mid-afternoon. The clerk at the front desk lets them through the door into the bullpen where they’re greeted by a detective in a tweed jacket and a crooked, knit tie. The man has a mop of salt-and-pepper hair shoved haphazardly back against his nape, a neatly trimmed beard, and wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his long, thin nose. He looks more like Holden’s old college professors than a homicide detective. 

“Ah, gentlemen.” He says, jumping from his desk to approach them. “You must be the FBI boys.”

“Hi, yes.” Bill says, accepting the detective’s firm handshake. “Bill Tench. This is my partner, Holden Ford.”

“Detective Ambrose Taft.” The detective says, turning to shake Holden’s hand. “I’m the lead on this case.”

“Oh, I thought Detective Wilson was lead?” Holden asks, “That’s who I spoke to when I did the initial profile two months ago.” 

“Wilson retired.” Taft says, “I’ve taken on all of his active cases. I have to say, I didn’t expect to be working with the FBI so early in my tenure here.”

“Not from around here?” Bill asks. 

“No.” Taft chuckles, “I came from California.”

“Wow, talk about culture shock.” Bill says, “How’s the transition been?”

Taft offers a wilted smile. “Trying.”

“We understand.” Holden says, “We spoke to Chief Morris over the phone this weekend. He doesn’t seem exactly pleased we’re here.”

“It’s Senator Lindower.” Taft says, waving them over to his desk where the surface is overflowing with stacks of case files and sticky notes scribbled with names and dates. “He’s made it clear he wants his son’s murder solved, and quickly. You could say that he and Chief Morris have a bumpy history.”

“How so?” Holden asks. 

“Back in the day they were both on city council.” Taft says, “And after that, they haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on political issues. I’m afraid this case is more entrenched in certain politics than either of them can handle.”

“We understand it’s delicate.” Bill says, “Does the senator have any idea we’re investigating his son’s death as part of a serial?”

“I’ve tried to brace him, but so far, he hasn’t been receptive to the idea.”

“And Morris?”

“All he cares about is the collar.” Taft says, “He and Lindower may not get along, but he wants the credit for bagging the guy who killed a senator’s son.”

“We don’t care about who gets the credit.” Bill says, “I hope he understands that we’re just here to help.”

“I’ll do my best to mediate.” Taft says, scraping a hand through his shaggy hair. “We should go talk to Morris before diving in, make sure we’re all on the same page.”

Holden and Bill share a taut glance as Taft leads them across the bullpen towards the chief of police’s office. Holden imagines they’re both thinking the same thing. Doing consults on paper and over the phone has become their method over on-the-ground assistance, mainly because they don’t have the time anymore to visit every precinct, but also because wading into choppy political waters can complicate the case rather than simplify it. They’re here to fight for the victims, not the credit; and in this situation, Holden can’t find his frustration over Ted and Senator Lindower forcing them to fly out here, only an invigoration to do right by the dead. It seems that no one, except perhaps the overworked Detective Taft, had been fighting solely for justice for the slain men - at least, not until someone they deemed worthy was killed. 

Taft raps his knuckles on Morris’s door, and they’re beckoned inside with a gruff, “Come.”

Taft holds the door open, allowing Bill and Holden to enter ahead of him. 

Chief Morris, a stout man in his late fifties with thinning blond hair combed over his ruddy, balding head, doesn’t stand to greet them when they approach. He does lean forward to accept Bill’s handshake, though grudgingly. Drooping, gray eyes peer suspiciously past thick glasses at Bill and Holden while they make their introductions. 

“Chief Morris,” Bill says, managing a diplomatic tone, “We were just speaking to Detective Taft here, assuring him that my partner and I are here to help with the case. We’re not interested in who gets credit for the collar. We just want to bring the killer to justice.”

“I see.” Morris says, leaning back into his chair with a deep exhale. He has a beer gut that strains against his belt, and Holden quietly wonders when was the last time he got out from behind his desk to work a case on the ground. “Well, George was quick to inform me that he’d called in a favor with his buddies at the FBI, wanted to make sure his son’s case got the ‘attention’ it deserved.”

“Look,” Bill says, spreading his hands, “We know we’re here because of Senator Lindower’s son, but there’s other victims. And despite our own initial doubts, we’ve had time to review Andrew’s case and we believe it is connected to the other three killings that happened over the past year and a half.”

“Really?” Morris asks, “Andrew Lindower was a lettered, highschool athlete, a third year law student. He came from a good family, had a steady girlfriend for God’s sake. He was shot in the chest and the others were stabbed. What makes you think that his case is related to the deaths of three queer lowlifes?”

Holden’s jaw clenches. Years of dealing with local law enforcement has taught him not to get emotional in these conversations, but he’d spent a great deal of time reviewing the initial three killings, getting to know those victims and not just the golden boy, a politician’s son. 

“With all due respect, sir, those men weren’t lowlifes.” Holden says, sharply. He catches Bill’s sideways glance, but pushes ahead with irritation burning in his chest. “Benjamin Harkness was an Army private. Marshal Hanes was a tax attorney. Arthur Richards was blue collar, but he was a hard-worker and a good person by all accounts from his friends and family. They also just so happened to be gay.”

Morris’s narrowed gaze meets Holden’s with hardening annoyance. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he draws in a deep breath. 

“Agent Ford, you just got here.” He says, jabbing a finger at the floor, “You ever been to the part of town where the Golden Falcon is located? It’s full of drugs, whores, and violence. Both men and women selling themselves on the street. They operate with impunity, and then wonder why we got what they’re calling a ‘crisis’ with AIDS on our hands.”

Holden opens his mouth to respond, but Detective Taft steps in with an upraised hand. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” He says, clearing his throat, “I think we’re all here with a common goal. To find the killer. Shouldn’t we stay focused on that?” 

“You’re right, Ambrose.” Morris says, shooting Taft a smoldering glare. “So tell me, Agents, what are you going to do for this investigation that my men haven’t already done?”

“Well, sir, first we’d like to start by revisiting all of the dump sites.” Bill says, “And speaking to all the known associates of these men. Agent Ford worked up a profile two months ago of the killer that we still stand by. We’re pretty certain the killer is a part of their social circle, and that you may have already interviewed him.”

Morris grunts, “You think we already talked to the killer and didn’t know it?”

“Yes. These men are very skilled at hiding who they are.” Holden says, “And we’ve learned that many of them like to inject themselves into the investigation, either to gain information about the inside workings of the case or to influence it somehow.”

“Fine.” Morris says, “But we didn’t get a lot of people to talk to us the first time around.”

“He’s right, unfortunately.” Taft says, “My predecessor, Detective Wilson, has maybe a few pages of notes from friends of the victims.” 

“How hard did he try?” Holden asks. 

“Detective Wilson was a decorated officer.” Morris says, “If you’re implying he was falling down on the job-”

“Not at all.” Bill says, shooting Holden a warning glance. “We know how hard it can be to gain trust that was already broken years beforehand.”

“It’s not just the friends of the victims.” Taft says, uttering a weary sigh. “It’s the whole community. Detective Wilson and almost everyone else in this department has had their share of run-ins with men over at the Golden Falcon. 

“That’s exactly where we need to start. ” Holden says, “Two men are connected to that bar.”

“That might be harder than it sounds.” Taft says, “The owner, Robert Sunder - goes by Sunny for short - has become something of a social justice warrior. He stood up for a man last year, a school teacher, who was accused of being a pedophile. A few months before that, he led a march to the city council’s steps when there was a string of attacks on gay men who were spit on and beaten; and he was at the Harkness family’s side when they came here in here demanding Wilson do something about their son’s death.” 

“He’s going to be a problem?” Bill asks, quietly. 

Holden’s gaze shifts from Taft to glimpse Bill’s rigid profile. The question hangs in the air, choked, holding a faint glimmer of familiarity.

“Well, he owns the club.” Taft says, “You can’t get in unless someone vouches for you, and he has the trust of every single person involved in this case. I’ve tried to contact him multiple times to ask for his help, but he’s never returned my calls.”

“Unbelievable.” Holden says, shaking his head, “Don’t they want this case solved?”

“They don’t want it to be someone they know.” Taft says, shrugging helplessly. 

“I should have just gotten a warrant for the bar by now.” Morris says, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his desk with a frustrated grunt. “For all we know, it could be him, and that’s why the bastard’s so touchy.”

“I doubt that.” Bill says, sharply. 

Holden feels his hands itch with sweat as Morris and Taft’s gazes both swing intently to Bill. 

“Really?” Morris asks, his eyebrows rising. “Is there something about Robert Sunder you know that I don’t?” 

Bill clears his throat. Holden sees the hesitation in the flicker of his jawline for half a second before he lifts his gaze to Morris’s with resolve. 

“He’s a political ally.” Bill says, “This killer might inject himself into the investigation, but he would not be a voice of reason. The guy we’re looking for is lonely and angry. He’s unfulfilled in his personal life, and he can’t hold a job for very long. Robert Sunder graduated highschool and college, and he’s owned this bar for over thirty years. He doesn’t fit our profile.”

Morris holds Bill’s gaze for a long moment before leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “Fine. I see what you mean. But he’s still a roadblock, wouldn’t you agree?”

“We need to earn his trust, not tear it down.” Bill says, “And we need to get into that club.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Taft asks. 

“We’ll find a way.” Bill says, “But first, let’s do the groundwork.” 

“I can take you to all the dumpsites.” Taft says, “And I believe Senator Lindower is eager to speak to both of you.” 

“You’ll keep me abreast of any developments?” Morris says to Taft. 

“Yes, sir.”

He nods for them to leave the office. Holden follows Taft to the door, but Bill lingers, amiably extending his hand to Morris. 

“I hope you’ll forgive me and my partner’s enthusiasm.” Bill says, squeezing Morris’s hand. “We are both committed to stopping this bastard from killing again.”

Some of the animosity melts from Morris’s expression. He gives a faint smile as he returns Bill’s firm shake. 

“Of course, Agent Tench. And I hope you understand that I’m the fall guy here. I’ve got the brass, the mayor, and Lindower breathing down my neck.” 

“Right.” Bill says, offering a chuckle. “Hopefully we can help take some of the heat off.”

“I sure do hope so.” 

As the door swings shut behind them, Holden matches Bill’s stride across the bullpen. 

“We shouldn’t have to apologize to people like that.” Holden says, quietly. “That guy is an asshole.”

“And the chief of police.” Bill says, “Come on, Holden, we have to play nice here. Not just with him, but with everyone involved.”

“Including Robert Sunder?”

Bill pauses to pull his cigarettes out of his pocket, his mouth curling into a sneer as he pushes one into his mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were pretty quick to jump to a complete stranger’s defense.”

“He doesn’t fit our profile.” Bill says, shooting Holden a cool glare. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“At first glance, but we haven’t even talked to the guy yet. Aren’t you the one always saying we have to run down every possibility?” 

“Come on, Holden.” Bill says, exhaling a sigh along with a cloud of smoke. “Are you just playing the devil’s advocate here, or do you really think the nightclub owner, the guy who’s had a steady job and income and political exposure for the past thirty years could be our guy? The guy  _ you _ profiled was unfulfilled, lonely, has anger issues, and can’t hold down a job for more than a few months?” 

Holden shakes his head. “I don’t know, Bill. I just-”

“Just what?” 

Before Holden can muster a reply, Taft waves at them to follow him out of the bullpen. 

“You guys ready?”

“Yeah.” Bill says, shouldering past Holden. “Let’s get to it.” 

~

Before committing to the task of visiting the dumpsites, Bill, Holden and Taft agree to pay a visit to the Lindower home to talk to the newest victim’s family. Taft, who has already spoken to the senator directly, warns them both not to press too hard on the issue of Andrew’s sexuality.

“He was adamant when we spoke.” Taft says, casting a glance at Holden in the rear view mirror. “He said, ‘no son of mine is a faggot.’”

“You believe him?” Bill asks. 

“Not necessarily.” Taft says, “If Andrew really was at the Golden Falcon that night, then I’d be more inclined to say no, but no one has confirmed that he actually was there. They just know that he left their house around ten p.m. that evening.”

“We’ve got our work cut out for us.” Bill says, “But we’ll try to be delicate.” 

Holden doesn’t offer any such assurances as he watches the neighborhoods flashing by outside his window grow progressively richer and more pristine. The houses are massive, Tudor and Victorian style relics of an older world, all of them restored to their former beauty by deep pockets, some of them even deeper than a senator’s. This cross-section of wealthy homes is so far from the dark, trash-lined streets surrounding the Golden Falcon that it’s difficult to envision any of its denizens stumbling that far from their comfort zone, but Holden knows better. He knows that money doesn’t always equal happiness, that prosperity does not promise acceptance, that sometimes people have to travel far from home just to freely be who they truly are. The deeper he goes into this case, the more he’s convinced that Andrew had encountered just such a crucible in his own life. 

The Lindower home is set back from the road, separated from the secluded drive by a manicured lawn and a long driveway that winds around a white marble fountain. 

“Senators in Georgia must be getting paid a pretty penny.” Bill observes as they roll slowly down the driveway. 

“Maybe.” Taft says, “But Lindower was rich before he came into office. His wife, Lillian, is the heir of an oil fortune.” 

They get out of the car and head up the front steps of the house with Taft in the lead. He taps the door knocker three times, and leans back to brace his hands on his hips. Only a few moments pass before the door creaks open. 

A black man dressed in a pressed suit regards them with a somber gaze. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Detective Taft.” Taft says, pulling his jacket aside to show the badge on his hip. “These are my associates, FBI Agents Tench and Ford. Is the senator in? It’s about his son.”

“I see.” The man replies, holding the door open. 

They shuffle into the foyer where marble floors capture the slightest footfall and send it echoing up to the soaring, arched ceiling above. A massive staircase takes up most of the space at the center of the foyer, and leads up to the second story where a large painting hanging at the landing depicts the Lindower family in almost royal shades. 

“Wait here.” The butler says before leaving them in the foyer. 

As they wait in silence, a grandfather clock from deep within the house chimes out the hour in bass tones. Holden shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with his surroundings. None of them are speaking, as if this house holds the same kind of wordless respect that’s expected in libraries and museums. It’s stifling, and he can only wonder how Andrew, a young man desperately searching for his identity, must have tried to cope with his rigid surroundings. 

The butler returns a few minutes later. 

“Senator and Mrs. Lindower will see you in the parlor.” He says, “Follow me.”

As they follow the man out of the foyer and down the hall, Holden catches Bill’s glance, and shares his disbelief at the lavish surroundings that border on pretentious. 

When they reach the parlor, the butler waves them inside, and slips out of the room.

Senator Lindower is sitting in an armchair by the fireplace which stands void in the summertime heat. Despite his polished surroundings, he’s dressed down in a golf shirt and khakis, and his reading glasses are perched low on his nose as he scans the newspaper. 

On the sofa across from him, his wife is sitting on the edge of the cushions with a teacup cradled in her hand. She’s in a salmon pink, form-fitting dress, and her blond hair is perfectly coiffed into a fluffy, teased bouffant. At a glance, it’s clear she’s had her share of Botox and face lifts to preserve her classic beauty. 

Lindower clears his throat, and snaps his newspaper shut when they enter. 

“Ambrose,” He says, rising from his chair to shake Taft’s hand. “Good to see you again. You brought friends.”

“Yes, sir.” Taft says, waving Bill and Holden forward. “Agents Tench and Ford from the FBI’s behavioral science unit.”

“Behavioral science.” Lindower says, extending his hand to Bill. “Ted told me a bit about it. Sounds very modern and cutting edge.”

“We’re still developing it, sir. But we hope we can help in your son’s case.” Bill says. 

Lindower’s gaze shifts to Holden. His grip is firm like that of a python that seems to gently drag Holden closer for a better look. Behind the black rim of his glasses, his eyes are dark brown, almost black in the muted light of the parlor. 

“Ford, is it?” 

“Yes.” Holden says, returning the handshake as firmly as he can. 

“Ted told me something about you.” Lindower says, his gaze cool yet curious. 

From her perched seat on the couch, Lillian Lindower clears her throat. 

“Oh, yes, let me introduce my wife.” Lindower says, his eyes cutting away from Holden to Lillian. 

She rises from the edge of the couch, and sets her teacup delicately on the coffee table before approaching them. 

“My wife, Lillian.” Lindower says, putting his hand on the small of her back. 

“Lovely to meet you both.” She says. 

She shakes Bill’s hand before quickly turning to Holden, her pink-painted lips blooming into a smile. 

“As my husband said, Ted told us about your work at the FBI.” She says, her voice a gentle drawl like molasses creeping on a warm morning. “I have to say you aren’t what I expected, Agent Ford.”

Holden realizes he’s still holding her hand, and that he’s not sure if he should shake it or if he’s expected to kiss her knuckles. He retrieves his hand instead, ignoring the clutch of nerves against the back of his neck. 

“Too young?” He asks, mustering a chuckle. 

“Mm, perhaps.” She says, her eyes narrowing slightly. 

“It’s okay. I get that a lot.” 

“Oh, don’t worry.” Lindower interrupts, waving a casual hand. “If Ted trusts you to get the job done right, then so do we.”

“We appreciate your confidence, sir.” Bill says, “And we understand that you’ve already been over everything with Detective Taft, but we’d still like to discuss it with you personally if that’s all right.”

“Of course.” Lindower says, “Please, sit down.”

Bill and Holden take a seat on the sofa while Taft occupies the other armchair. Holden slides his notebook and pen out of his pocket, flipping it open to the details of Andrew’s case that he had jotted down during the plane ride. 

“So, the police report said that you thought Andrew left the house around ten o’clock that night?” He asks. 

“Yes.” Lindower says, “I told him to be safe, not stay out too late.”

“Did he leave with anyone?” 

“No, he left on his own.” Lindower says, “They found his car abandoned a few miles from where he was … from where they found him.” 

“Did he say where he was going?” Bill asks. 

“Just out with friends.” Lindower says, “It’s not out of the ordinary. He’s a popular guy.”

“I see.” Bill says, softly. “So, he didn’t have a curfew or any set rules?”

“No. He stays with us every summer in between semesters, but he’s his own person. He turned twenty-one this year.” Lindower says, “I’ve always tried to treat him like an adult who understands his responsibilities. I also raised him to be smart, keep his head on straight.” 

“The only rule was that he would call if he wasn’t going to be home the next day.” Lillian says, breaking her silence from the end of the couch. “He never called.” 

“That’s how we knew there was something wrong right away.” Lindower says, his composed expression melting into one of transparent grief for a few brief moments before he clears his throat. “When he wasn’t home in the morning, I immediately called the police and had my security start trying to retrace his steps.”

“Had any of his friends heard from him?” Holden asks. 

“We called everyone.” Lindower says, “They all claim they went to a drive-in movie, stopped for pizza, and then had a few drinks at a bar called The Terrace before heading home.” 

“Can anyone corroborate that?” Holden asks, shooting Taft a glance. 

“We followed up at all of those places.” Taft says, “Witnesses saw Andrew leaving with his friends from the Terrace around one o’clock in the morning.” 

Holden jots down the details of Andrew’s evening in chronological order while Bill continues questioning Lindower about the group of friends. He doesn’t mention it aloud, but the ME’s report put the time of death at around eight o’clock the following morning. By that point, he’d been inebriated and high. None of the friends had mentioned Andrew being drunk at the Terrace or drugs. Either the friends are lying, or the Lindowers don’t know their son as well as they think they do. 

“Was there anywhere else you can think of that he would have gone that night?” Holden asks, looking up from his notebook. 

“Every place we can think of, we’ve called.” Lindower says, “I haven’t slept, Agent Ford. I don’t think I made this many phone calls when I was campaigning for office.” 

“Maybe there was somewhere he might have gone that he didn’t tell you about.” Holden says. 

Silence settles over the parlor. The clock on the wall ticks out the seconds as stifling tension rises. Lindower’s expression shifts minutely, a flicker between frustration and fear. 

“What are you suggesting?” Lindower asks, his arms crossing defensively over his chest. 

“We can’t rule out the possibility that Andrew could have been keeping things from you.” Holden says. 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know. It could be anything. Something he felt he needed to hide.” 

“Why would he want to hide anything from us?” Lindower asks, sharply, his cheeks flushing as the anger in his voice rises. 

“George.” Lillian says, softly, her tone placating in a way that sounds practiced. 

Lindower’s gaze snaps to meet hers, and the tension in the room balloons. Hidden questions and fears knot beneath the stifled silence while the two struggle to maintain their facade of composure. 

“It wouldn’t be anything to be ashamed of.” Bill says, finally. “All kids hide things from their parents. I’m sure everyone in this room hid something from their parents.” 

“He wasn’t hiding anything.” Lindower says, his dark eyes swinging back to viciously meet Bill’s. “He was a good boy, Agent Tench. A student, an athlete, but more than that, he had a good heart. He wanted to become a lawyer and help people. It was his dream. He wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize that.” 

“We understand.” Bill says, “And I apologize. We’re not trying to be insensitive, but we have to think of every possibility.” 

“Oh, like what?” Lindower asks, rising to his feet. “Trying to link my son’s case to three dead faggots?” 

“ _ George _ .” Lillian says again, but he doesn’t acknowledge her. 

“Is that it?” Lindower presses, cutting a glance at Taft. “Ambrose, tell me it isn’t true.”

“We have to take it into consideration.” Taft says, quietly. “We’ve compared the cases, and I have to tell you that there is several compelling reasons to consider what happened to Andrew as-”

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you?” Lindower says, his voice rising to a choked shout. “My son was no faggot. He had a girlfriend, Lisa, who is devastated by the way. I saw them together, and they loved each other. He wasn’t looking at other men!”

“I’m sure they did, and I’m sorry.” Taft says. 

“I need some air.” Lindower mutters. 

As he marches past the sofa, Holden glances up to momentarily catch his gaze. He expects scathing rage, but the man’s eyes are wet and terrified, bald panic rather than anger, seizing grief overwhelming indignation. 

They sit in silence for a long moment before Lillian gets up from the couch. 

“I’ll show you out.” She says, quietly. 

They file out of the parlor, and back to the foyer. She holds the door open while Taft and Bill exit ahead of Holden. They’re already walking down the front steps and across the driveway when she puts a hand on Holden’s arm. 

“Agent Ford.” 

He casts a glance at Bill and Taft who are nearly to the car before turning back to meet her gaze. 

She lowers her head, stifling a wounded, little laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s just that …

“What’s wrong?” He asks. 

She blinks against misty tears, and slowly looks back up at him. “You just … remind me of him. Of my son.”

Holden swallows hard, feeling his stomach begin to drop. 

“Your eyes.” She says, pressing her knuckle to the corner of her eye where a tear is beginning to blemish her mascara. “Forgive me.”

“It’s quite all right. Was there … was there something else?” 

She purses her lips, and draws in a deep breath. “Yes. You have to understand, my husband was a good father. He loved Andrew and wanted him to succeed. But your partner was right. Sometimes children hide things.”

“Like what?” 

“He’d been hanging out with a rough crowd. When George and I confronted him about it, he said that he was cutting ties. After that he just seemed …  _ different  _ these past few months. Quieter. I thought he seemed sad, but George wouldn’t hear it. He said it was stress about school, but I knew it was more than that. He was my baby, and I knew …”

Holden lowers his head as her voice quakes, then crumbles. Her tears are bracing. He’s never quite known what to do with tears. He can never remember his own mother crying, can never remember it being acceptable. He thinks he should try to comfort her in some way, but all he can do is avert his gaze. 

“Maybe something was going on.” Lillian says, her voice shuddering. “I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything anymore. I just know something was wrong, and I don’t want you to let George intimidate you into thinking otherwise.”

Holden nods, imbuing confidence in his eyes as he meets her gaze again. “I won’t.”

She offers him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Holden leaves her by the door, and glances up to see Bill leaning against the car smoking a cigarette. 

“What was that about?” Bill asks. 

“Confirmation.” Holden says, “Andrew was hiding something.”

“Something?”

“He was gay, just like the rest.” Holden says, quietly. 

“She said that?” 

“Something like it.” 

“Something like it isn’t exactly a confirmation.”

“It’s enough.” Holden says, lifting his chin. “We’re on the right path, Bill.”

“We need to find someone to confirm it before we plunge ahead.” Taft says, pulling open the car door, “We should talk to his friends again.”

“Let’s hit the dumpsites first.” Bill says, “We have to focus on all the kills, not just Andrew.”

As they begin to pile back into the car, Holden’s gaze catches on a small, red car parked on the curb a few houses down from the Lindower's driveway. It hadn’t been there when they arrived, and the dingy make and model suggests someone who doesn’t live on this street. 

Holden ducks into the car. 

“Someone is watching us.” He says. 

“What?” Taft asks, his gaze meeting Holden’s in the rear view mirror. 

“That red car parked on the curb.” Holden says, turning to shoot a glance through the back windshield. “It wasn’t there when we got here.”

“I see it.” Bill says, peering into the side view mirror. “Doesn’t look like a car anyone who lives here would drive.”

“I’ll pull out slowly.” Taft says, “See what happens.”

Holden keeps his gaze trained on the car as Taft steers around the fountain and down the driveway towards the road. As they reach the end of the drive, the car lurches into motion. 

“Shit, he’s running.” Bill says, leaning forward to brace a hand against the dashboard as Taft accelerates abruptly. 

They speed out onto the road, and Taft switches on his lights. He gets up close behind the red hatchback as they near the end of the street. The fleeing car takes the sharp turn around the corner before the brake lights come on. It slows and pulls off into the gravel shoulder, forcing Taft to slam on the brakes behind it. They come to a jolting stop just a few feet behind the bumper of the hatchback. 

In the ensuing silence, Holden can hear them all breathing, quick yet muted while the dust settles around the vehicles. The driver of the red car doesn’t move. 

Bill shoves the door open, and steps out onto the shoulder of the road. He pushes his jacket back from his sidearm as he approaches. 

Holden scrambles to get out of the car, his heart pounding. The driver could be anyone, a lookie-loo or a terrified pizza delivery guy. But it could also be someone important, maybe even the unsub. Could they get lucky that quickly? 

Holden comes up behind him as Bill reaches the driver’s side door, and raps on the window with his knuckles. 

“FBI. Get out of the car.”

The door creaks open slowly. A young man with long, dirty blond hair, and wide, scared eyes climbs out of the vehicle. He raises his hands submissively as Bill pushes him up against the side of the car. 

“You following us?” Bill demands. 

“Wait!” Taft’s voice draws Bill’s and Holden’s gaze from the shaking driver back to the detective. Taft approaches them, his hands raised. “It’s okay, guys. I know who this kid is.” 


	3. pandora's box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation turns up a lead, and Bill faces the past.

Jason Veruhaus has a storied rap sheet for someone so young. At age twenty, he’d already been pulled in for petty theft, possession, dealing, and a few counts of public indecency. Bill flips through the pages of Veruhaus’s file while Taft offers the kid a cup of coffee on the other side of the interview room’s glass window. 

“He isn’t the killer.” Holden says, shifting closer to the glass to peer at Jason’s cowed body language. “But I’d bet money he knows him.”

Bill nods as he reaches the witness statements Jason gave the police after the death of the first victim, Marshal Hanes. 

“He’s a regular at the Golden Falcon.” Bill says, “He admits to knowing both Hanes and Harkness.” 

“Apparently he knew Andrew as well.” Holden says, “This could be the link, Bill.” 

Bill nods, his jaw clenching. If Veruhous links Andrew to the Golden Falcon, they’ll have no choice but to further pursue entrance into the club. A search warrant, the place torn apart. Sunny dragged in for questioning. The thought makes his palms itch with sweat and his throat knot with dread. 

“Let’s get in there.” Holden says, “It looks like Taft has him warmed up.”

Bill slaps the file shut, and tucks it under his arm. Gathering himself with a deep breath, he follows Holden into the interview room. 

“Jason, these are my colleagues from the FBI, Agents Tench and Ford.” Taft says, “They’re here to investigate what’s been going on the last several months.” 

Jason’s dark blue eyes shift anxiously to acknowledge Bill and Holden. One arm is crossed over his chest, fingers clutching his elbow and scratching nervously at the bare skin. 

“They really want to help.” Taft adds, “You can talk to them.”

Jason shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t wanna get thrown in jail. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“We understand.” Holden says, taking a seat across from Jason, “But, we’re curious why you were following us to the Lindower’s house.”

Jason sniffs, quietly. “I, uh … I just wanted to see what was going on.”

“Why?” 

“Because …” 

Holden extricates his notebook from his pocket, and clicks his pen open. His voice is gentle and low as he presses, “Because of Andrew?”

Jason nods, biting at his lower lip. 

“You knew him?” 

“Yeah.” Jason says, hoarsely. “Him and some of the others too.” 

Bill takes the chair beside Holden, and pulls out his cigarettes. Jason’s watery eyes shift upwards as Bill lights his cigarette, sending the sharp odor of nicotine weaving through the air. 

“Smoke?” Bill asks, extending the pack to Jason. 

“Thanks.” Jason mutters, tugging one of the cigarettes from the pack. 

Bill leans forward with his lighter, eyeing Jason’s expression closely as the kid purses his lips tightly around the cigarette. Jason’s eyes flick upwards to meet Bill’s as the cigarette catches flame. There’s no deceit in the gaze, only a distinct fear and sadness.

“You were friends?” Bill asks. 

Jason takes a drag of the cigarette, and leans back in his chair. His eyes harden. 

“They didn’t mention me, did they?” He asks. 

“Who? The Lindowers?” Holden says. 

Jason nods, his jaw clenching. “Figures.” 

“Why would they mention you, Jason?” Bill asks. 

Jason taps ashes onto the floor, and swipes his knuckles across his mouth. His mouth twists with a coarse chuckle. “Those two have their heads so far up their fucking asses.”

“Yeah.” Bill scoffs an agreement, “Politicians, am I right?”

Jason gives a sad smile. “Yeah. I didn’t fit into their picture of how Andrew’s life was gonna go. They knew we were friends, and they tried to force him to stop talking to me. They would never have acknowledged that it was … that we were-” 

“More than that?” Holden asks, softly. 

Jason presses the cigarette to his mouth, inhaling slowly. He nods. 

“Andrew was your boyfriend.” Holden concludes. 

“Yeah, but he was more than that.” Jason says, his voice choking with tears. “He was … he saw me, you know. Everybody else just thinks I’m a loser junkie or a hooker or … But not him. He …”

His voice dwindles as tears glisten in the corners of his eyes. Lowering his head, he presses a hand to his forehead. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Holden whispers. 

Bill glances away, taking a sharp drag of his cigarette. The dry taste of nicotine coats the back of his throat, but it doesn’t ease the ache beginning to plunge like a knife through the middle of his chest. 

_ Stay objective.  _ He thinks, tamping down the faint sting of panic in the back of his mind. 

“What happened that night?” He asks. 

Jason sniffs back tears, and lifts his head. “We, uh … we met up around one thirty. He wanted to go out. He said he didn’t want to go home that night, that he was feeling trapped at his parent’s house.” 

“So, where did you go?” 

There’s a beat of silence before Jason admits what Bill had already feared. 

“We went out.” Jason says, “To the Golden Falcon.” 

Bill clenches his jaw. “Then what happened?”

“We stayed out, drinking, dancing.” Jason says, “He’d had a lot to drink. He could go a little crazy when he was drunk so I tried to tell him we should leave. He didn’t listen to me. Next thing I know, he’s dancing up on some other guy, half-naked. I’ve been through a lot of hook-ups. I shouldn’t have let it bother me, but for some reason I couldn’t let it go. I went outside to smoke a cigarette, and when I came back in … fuck-”

Bill and Holden wait in silence as Jason’s voice crumbles, and he breathes hard against the threat of tears. Rubbing fingertips against his tear ducts, Jason draws in a deep, shuddering breath. 

“He, uh … he was gone.” 

“Did you ask anyone to help you look for him?” Holden asks. 

“No, I knew where he went.” Jason says, “I figured that was that - he was gonna go hook up with this guy, and we’d fight about it for a couple days, then move on like we always do. I went home and went to bed. I just …”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Holden says, “You had no way of knowing what was going to happen.”

“Why didn’t you come forward?” Bill asks, suddenly, unable to stop the biting tone in his voice. 

Jason’s head lifts, his wet eyes meeting Bill’s with quivering fear. 

“You saw the killer.” Bill says, “Chances are that guy Andrew was dancing with was the guy who murdered him. Were you just going to sneak around behind our backs, watching the investigation happen without saying anything?”

“No, I-”

“Bill.” Holden says, quietly. 

Bill shakes his head, and leans forward to stamp his cigarette into the ashtray. “Do you even want Andrew’s killer brought to justice?” 

“Yes, of course I do!” Jason says, his tone rising above a scared whisper for the first time. “Of course I don’t want someone like that going free. But, you weren’t here when this started. That Detective Wilson didn’t give a shit about us. All he cared about was ‘cleaning up the street’ or so he called it. He didn’t help anyone, he just made accusations. So forgive me, Agent Tench, if I don’t exactly trust the police.”

“We believe you.” Taft says, quietly, putting a hand on Jason’s arm. He shoots Bill a scathing glance before turning his attention back to Jason. “Let’s take a break, okay? I think we could all use a moment to breathe.”

Shoving his chair back, Bill strides out of the interview room. 

Holden follows him out into the hall. The dark blue of his eyes are muted in the empty corridor, speaking volumes that his pursed lips aren’t saying. 

“Don’t.” Bill says, sharply, turning to pace across the dingy tile. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I can tell you’re thinking it.” 

Holden crosses his arms, and leans back against the wall. He watches Bill pace for a long moment before he draws in a deep breath. 

“Is something the matter?”

“Yeah, something’s the matter.” Bill says, “I’ve never worked an investigation where the friends and family of the victims did everything in their power to prevent us from working the case.”

“They’re just scared.” Holden says, “The Lindowers  _ and  _ Jason.”

Bill rubs a hand over the back of his neck as his pacing comes to a halt. Staring down at the scuffed floor of the hall, he feels his chest tighten. He’s just as scared, but he can’t say that aloud, least of all to Holden. 

“We’ll get a sketch artist in here.” Holden says, “Maybe Jason can remember what the guy looked like. This is our third connection to the Golden Falcon so I think next steps are to get in there, and start showing the sketch to everyone we can.”

“It might not be that easy.” Bill says, “If the rest of the club regulars are anything like Jason, they aren’t going to want to talk to us, let alone rat out one of their own.” 

“We have to try. It’s the next best step. Now we know for certain that Andrew was at the club that night, and I think we’re both pretty sure the killer was too.”

Bill nods, weakly. He takes only another moment to gather his composure before he follows Holden back into the interview room. 

“Jason, can you remember what the guy looked like that Andrew left with?” Holden asks. 

“I don’t know, vaguely.” Jason says, “It’s pretty dark in there.”

“Can you do your best to remember? We want to get a sketch artist in here to work with you.” Holden says. 

“I’ll try.” Jason agrees. 

“You want some more coffee?” Taft asks. 

“Sure.” 

Taft leads Bill and Holden back out into the hall. The door falls shut behind them, echoing down the corridor until it fades. Taft sighs as he watches Jason through the one-way glass. 

“You were right.” He mutters, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “We have to get into the Falcon.”

“Yeah, I think we do.” Holden says. 

“It took me weeks to earn Jason’s trust back after Wilson shattered it to pieces.” Taft says, dragging his hand down over his mouth and bracing his chin against his knuckles. “I can’t imagine how hard it’s going to be with an entire community.”

“What about Morris?” Holden asks, “We have three connections to the club now. He’s going to be chomping at the bit for a warrant.”

“Let’s hold off on that as long as we can.” Bill interjects, “I think there’s another way.”

“What way is that?” Taft asks. 

“At the very least, let’s hold off until tomorrow.” Bill says, “After we’ve revisited the other three murders. If we’re going to start searching the club, we should know what we’re looking for first.”

“I agree.” Taft says. 

“Okay.” Holden says, “Let’s get the sketch artist in here. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Taft leaves them to call for the sketch artist. The corridor is utterly silent as Bill braces his hands against the ledge of the one-way window. He can feel Holden’s gaze wandering his clenched profile and the knotted tension in his shoulders, silently assessing and reading the tiny tells that Bill hadn’t meant to let slip free. On any other day, when he didn’t have something to hide, Holden’s company would have been comfortable, his awareness reassuring; but now, Bill feels naked and stripped down even in the unaccusing silence. What’s worse is that he knows he can’t run from the truth; people’s lives depend on the knowledge he’s secretly clutching to his chest. He has to use it even if it compromises him - it’s the right thing to do. 

~

While Jason works with the sketch artist, Bill, Holden, and Taft set up in one of the police station’s conference rooms with all the evidence boxes and case files. Holden arranges pictures, dates, times, and names on the corkboard for each murder. Using a map of the city, he creates a geographical profile of the killer using colored push-pins to indicate where the victims disappeared from and where they were found. When he’s finished, the four murders create an obvious semi-circle around one location: the Golden Falcon. 

“The club is the focal point.” Holden says, taking a step back from the board to survey the tableau of information. 

“It’s starting to look that way.” Bill mutters. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon pouring over witness statements and testimonials from friends and family. What Wilson had gotten was a mixed bag of grief, anger, resentment, and stigma. Most of the family statements are rife with disgust, mothers upset over their sons’ sexuality, father’s enraged that such a thing could even be suggested. The statements from friends are few and limited in detail, young men still covering for their friend’s drug addiction or occasional prostitution even after his death. It’s clear that most of the families had no idea who their sons were involved with, and the friends aren’t willing to give out names of their gay friends who could be incidentally implicated in the crimes. Many of the friends fit a few aspects of the profile, but none that Bill would stake any real money. Unfortunately, a lot of these men live transient lives, work multiple jobs, and have a record, though more often for drug possession or public indecency rather than assault. 

As dusk begins to settle and the precinct grows quiet, Taft rises from his chair announcing, “I think I’m going to call it a night. Let’s say we get back to it right away at eight o’clock tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.” Bill agrees. 

Holden swings his jacket from the back of his chair over his shoulder as Taft leaves the conference room. 

“I’m right behind him.” Holden says, “Coming?”

“Yeah. In a minute.”

Holden hesitates a moment, a concerned frown knitting his brow. Bill can see the questions stirring behind his eyes, yet subdued by the clench of his jaw. He knows Bill well enough not to deliberately pry. 

Bill glances away, and pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket. 

“Okay.” Holden says, finally. “Goodnight.”

“‘Night.”

Bill doesn’t look up until he hears Holden’s footsteps retreat all the way down the hallway. Once he’s gone, Bill tucks his cigarette in his mouth, and turns back to the conference room table that’s littered with case files and notebooks. He rifles through the files until he locates the one labeled  _ Robert Sunder.  _

Flipping the folder open, Bill gazes down at the mugshot of Sunny dated 1952. He’d been arrested during an anti-war protest. The black-and-white, aged photo can’t diminish the defiant gleam in his green eyes, or the righteous anger in the clench of his jaw. 

Thirty years have passed, and his face had slowly faded from Bill’s memory. Seeing it again after so long runs through his body like an electric burn, his memories rending open like a locked door holding back more emotion than he’d ever realized had been packed into those few, short months. 

Swallowing back the sudden scorch of emotion, Bill slides the picture out of the way to scan the personal information in Sunny’s file. His telephone number. His home address. The definitions of his existence outside of Bill’s mind. 

Bill jots down the home address on a Post-It note with a trembling hand, and strides out of the conference room before he can change his mind. 

The drive across town takes less than fifteen minutes, and in such a short time, Bill is sitting in the idling car on the curb of Sunny’s house, facing the magnitude of the past. 

The house is a simple one-story affair with white siding and blue shutters. The lawn is neatly tended, and a variety of blossoms decorate the flower bed at the front of the house. The car in the driveway and the yellow light shining through the window indicate that someone is home. 

Bill lights a cigarette to bolster himself. He smokes it halfway before the anxiety writhing in his chest is too much to bear. 

_ Just get it over with.  _ He thinks, tossing the cigarette out the window. 

He climbs out of the car, and crosses the street. The residential lane is quiet except for the distant yip of a dog. A faint breeze cools the sweat on Bill’s neck as he reaches the cracked line where the sidewalk meets with the driveway. 

He pauses here, at the threshold. Once he does this, there’s no going back. He’s opening Pandora’s Box, but he’d rather open it himself than have someone like Chief Morris pry it open for him. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Bill strides up the driveway, and mounts the porch steps. He pulls the screen door open, and raps his knuckles against the door. While he waits, he paces and listens intently for the sound of footfalls beyond the door.

He comes to a halt with his heart pounding when he hears the lock click open and the knob turn. The last minute thought of fleeing back to his car passes his mind before the inner door swings open, and Sunny’s broad frame is silhouetted behind the narrow partition of the screen. 

“Can I help you?” He asks. 

A reply lodges in the back of Bill’s throat as he realizes he’d forgotten what Sunny’s voice sounds like, and just those few syllables bring the last few buried memories racing back. Nausea churns in his belly, and again he thinks of running. 

The porch light overhead clicks on, half-blinding him with white light. Moths hum against the bulb as his squinted eyes adjust, and he slowly looks up to see Sunny on the other side of the screen door. Their eyes meet, silence registering for a long, tense moment. 

The screen door squeaks open, and Bill takes a shuffled step backwards. 

Sunny steps out onto the porch, letting the door swing shut behind him. It hits the latch with a clatter that scrapes against the pregnant silence swelling between them. 

Despite the years passed between them, Bill still recognizes him immediately. Sunny’s once fiery hair has gone entirely gray, but the wrinkles around his eyes don’t hide the familiar glint of green or the spark of intuition. He’s as tall as Bill remembers though his once lean figure has gone soft with age; still, he looks as powerful and confident as he recalls, virile despite the passage of thirty years. 

“Bill.” He says, and it’s like he’d somehow expected Bill to show up at his door after three decades of radio silence. 

Bill draws in a hitched breath. “Sunny.”

They stare at one another for another minute before Sunny drops his head, and scoffs, “I must be dreaming.”

“No.” Bill says, “I’m afraid not.”

Sunny’s gaze rises up slowly from the porch slats again, a flicker of a frown crossing his brow. “Why are you here? You sound like you don’t want to be.”

Bill clenches his jaw, and inhales through his nose. Slipping his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, he retrieves his badge, and flips it open. 

Sunny squints at it for a moment before his jaw hardens. “I see.”

“I’m not here to question you.” Bill says, “But this is about Andrew Lindower.”

Sunny tilts his head, a mixture of shock and frustration battling its way across his gaze. Finally, he drops his head, scoffing. “So, you disappear on me, and show up again thirty years later just so you can question me about some senator’s dead son?”

“Believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

Sunny’s gaze snaps back to Bill’s, and Bill can see his defenses rising. 

Bill shakes his head. “That sounded worse than I meant …”

“Well, this is some coincidence.” Sunny says, crossing his arms. “I suppose it must be kismet.”

“Kismet?”

“Yeah.” Sunny says, offering a sad smile. “You wanna get a drink?”

“Uh, sure.”

“I know just the place. I’ll be right back.” 

Bill can’t find the words or the will to argue before Sunny goes back into the house. He’s left on the porch alone, listening to the crickets chirp into the night. 

Slowly, his body begins to catch up with his mind, his heart easing its wild pounding. He’s not sure what he’d expected. For Sunny to be angry? For the gulf of years between them to soften the blow of ripping open old wounds? For this to not feel so fucking raw and vulnerable? Maybe he’d just expected more of himself, more than can be asked of anyone - to forget the past in favor of the present, to set aside old feelings and heartbreaks coldly in the name of the law, to act like this isn’t going to hurt him or change him in the end when he knows just the opposite is true. 

~

Sunny takes them to a dive bar just five minutes from his house. The place is half-deserted despite the late hour. A handful of other men are playing a game of pool at the table near the back while another pair of rough, bearded fellows are nursing beers in the booth across the bar. 

The bartender acknowledges Sunny with a smile when he approaches. “Hey, Sunny, long time no see.”

“Hey, Doug.” Sunny says, sliding onto one of the bar stools, “Sorry it’s been so long. I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, I know how it goes.” Doug says, “What can I get you?”

Sunny waves for Bill to sit down next to him. “What’ll you have, Bill?”

“Irish whiskey, if you have it.”

“Coming right up.” Doug says, “For you, Sunny?”

“I’ll have what he’s having.” 

“Two Irish whiskeys it is.” Doug says, swiping two glasses from underneath the counter. 

Bill takes the stool next to Sunny, and glances anxiously around the bar while Doug pours them their drinks. This place looks and acts nothing like the Golden Falcon. There’s nothing to indicate that it’s a “men only” bar, but the thought of what his being seen sharing a drink with Sunny might mean in this town chafes his already raw nerves. 

“So, FBI.” Sunny says as Doug leaves them to their drinks. 

“Yeah. Behavioral Science Unit.”

“Sounds fascinating.” Sunny says, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Tell me about it.”

“We study multiple murderers.” Bill says, “Serial killers, we call them. My partner and I finished and published a study last year on the subject. We interviewed over thirty convicted killers about why they do what they do.” 

Sunny’s brows rise. “That sounds … harrowing.”

“It’s not pretty, but it’s important work.”

“It helps you catch these men?” 

“Yes, we’ve discovered that the insights the convicts give us really inform us how the criminal mind works, and helps us to narrow a suspect pool when we’re assisting in an investigation.” 

“Hmm.” Sunny murmurs, bracing his elbows against the bar. He studies the bottom of his glass for a moment. “Is that why you’re here? You’re narrowing the suspect pool?”

“No.” Bill says, swirling his whiskey but not taking a drink. “You don’t fit the profile.”

“Profile?”

“Our psychological work-up of the suspect. You don’t fit it.”

Sunny glances up from the polished surface of the bar, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Well, that’s a relief.”

“I do need your help, though.” 

Sunny nods, his mouth pursing into a knowing grimace. “My bar. The Golden Falcon.”

“Yes. Earlier today we spoke to a witness who confirmed Andrew Lindower was there the night he was killed.” Bill says, then pauses in an attempt to soften his voice, “I don’t like it either, but there’s a strong possibility the person who killed these men routinely patronizes the bar.” 

Sunny takes a stiff drink of his whiskey, his jaw clenching as he swallows down the burning taste. 

“Don’t you want the killer brought to justice?” Bill asks, softly. 

“Yes.”

“Well, this is the only way. You have to let us in.” Bill says, “It’s either that or have the choice taken away from you by Chief Morris and a search warrant.”

Sunny sighs, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I don’t know.” Bill says, “Do you?”

Sunny shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Bill. It’s not that you won’t, it’s just that you can’t. You don’t live here. You aren’t one of us. You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to to guarantee that the Falcon is a safe place for men society would otherwise reject and scorn.”

“I see where you’re coming from-”

“No, you don’t.” Sunny says, sharply, casting Bill a cutting glare. “When the first murder happened, I begged Detective Wilson for discretion. Instead, he treated Marshal Hanes like trash. He claimed it was some kind of consensual, BDSM ritual gone wrong, and that Marshal was  _ asking  _ for it. He put Marshal’s name in the press, and let the media drag it through the mud. He wasn’t out to his family, Bill. They learned their son was gay in a press release touting the concept that he was part of some hardcore bondage sex ring. Then, to make matters worse, Wilson put surveillance on the club, and arrested anyone he could for public indecency. You do know what that’s code for, right? It’s just the police’s way of arresting men for being homosexual if they don’t have the proof to get them on a sodomy rap.”

Bill nods, his jaw working from side-to-side. He tries to think of some explanation or apology, but he doesn’t have one. None that he’s earned. 

“It wasn’t until Benjamin Harkness’s family started calling every single day that Wilson even put in an iota of real effort.” Sunny adds, scoffing against the rasp of emotion in his throat. “He claimed he was bringing in the FBI and the killings were going to stop once and for all. Well, here we are, two months later and nothing has changed. So you tell me - why should I trust the police this time?”

Bill holds Sunny’s gaze for a long moment, watching his anger melt down into something closer to despair. Tears swim in the corners of Sunny’s eyes, and he looks away, drawing in a shuddering breath. 

Bill swallows hard, tasting bile in the back of his throat. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, “I’m sorry you and your friends had to go through that.” 

“Yeah, well, the Falcon may never be the same again.” Sunny says, “It used to offer privacy and discretion. Now it has the blood of three men and the stench of CPD all over it - and no amount of apologizing can reverse that.” 

“So, what can I do to make it right?” Bill asks, “Other than catch the bastard who’s doing this?”

Sunny gives a choked laugh. “Nothing, Bill. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“Then, you have to at least let me do that.”

They sit in silence for a long minute before Sunny waves Doug down for another round. The bartender parses a concerned gaze between them as he refills their glasses, but respectfully walks away without searching for details. 

“I know it’s been a long time.” Bill says, “But, you can trust me. Wilson is gone and retired. The new detective, Taft, seems like a really stand-up guy. He’s not interested in bogus indecency raps or drug busts. And I can promise you that me and my partner are only here to stop this from happening again.” 

Sunny’s eyes are softer as he shifts his gaze back to Bill. A faint smile quivers at the corners of his mouth. 

“It  _ has _ been a long time.” He says, “I didn’t think seeing you again would make me feel like this.”

Bill’s chest tightens, a pang of fear and longing. He takes a drink of his whiskey to smother it. 

“Like what?” He asks. 

“Heartbroken.” 

Bill nods, focusing on the wood grain in the bar. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I was young and stupid and-”

“I’m not blaming anyone.” Sunny says, “If anything, I blame myself. I lost myself a bit when you said you were leaving. I shouldn’t have thrust that on you … my  _ feelings _ .”

Bill rubs a hand over his forehead, bracing back an overwhelming wave of emotion. He’d pushed it all down and hidden it away, thinking if he buried it deep enough it wouldn’t come back. But now, in this moment, he’s drowning in it, and he isn’t composed enough to conjure a lie. 

“No, I … I had those feelings too.” He says, at last, his voice a choked whisper. 

Sunny’s gaze pierces his temple, but Bill doesn’t look up. He stares into his whiskey until the image blurs into a two-dimensional visage that feels fake and distant from reality - far away from the truth he’d let fester too long deep in his chest. 

“We can’t change the past.” Sunny says, quietly. “I made myself get over you.”

Bill clenches his jaw. The glass in his hand is starting to blur. 

“I’m happy now.” Sunny says, “Don’t think I’m not.”

Bill gives a scraped chuckle. “Of course not.”

“I have a partner. Sam. We’ve been together for eight years now. I love him with everything inside of me.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

“What about you?” Sunny asks, managing a lighter tone. “Are you happy? Do you have someone?”

Bill takes a drink of his whiskey, trying to anesthetize the quiver and pang in his chest. His first thought is  _ no, he hasn’t been happy in awhile.  _ His second  _ Holden.  _ He blinks as the idea bursts past the walls in his mind, the little constructs of solitude he’d raised up between them, the lies that he’d told himself over and over again. Sitting in this bar beside Sunny with the ghosts of the past knocking at his door, it all feels weak and futile. 

“I don’t know.” He says, “I tried marriage and fatherhood, you know. It didn’t exactly work out the way I planned.”

“And now?”

“I’m just trying to take what life gives me.” Bill says, “This job is what’s important to me.”

“Okay.” Sunny says, “I trust you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And I want this killer stopped, but not at the expense of my patrons’ welfare and livelihood. I have to look out for them, you know; sometimes, I’m the only person in their lives not judging or hurting them.”

“I get that.”

“They rely on me to make the right decisions.” Sunny says, “I hope I’m making the right one with you.”

“You are.” 

Sunny knocks back the last of his whiskey, and sets the glass down firmly. “So, what do you need?”

“You have surveillance cameras?”

“Yes.”

“We need the footage from the night Andrew died.” Bill says, “And anyone who will talk to us. Ideally, we need to get someone into the club.”

“What does that mean?”

“This killer is smart.” Bill says, “He knows exactly which victim to pick. Who is the weakest, who will go with him. We’re not going to catch him unless he’s on the hunt again.”

“You want to put a mole in my bar?”

“We need eyes and ears in there.” Bill says, “Then maybe we’ll catch him in the act.”

Sunny sighs, and scrapes a hand through his hair. “I understand. But I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry. I think it’s the only way.”

“Your mole will need someone to vouch for him.” Sunny says, “Not just me. That’s the way the club works. If the guys see someone new getting in without an escort, they won’t be happy. And if they think I’m doing special favors for the police, they won’t like that either.”

Bill nods, thinking of Jason. “I have just the person.” 

Sunny purses his lips, resignation shining through his eyes. “Okay. I’ll come by the station tomorrow to speak with Detective Taft, let him know I’m willing to cooperate. I won’t mention this conversation, of course.”

“Thank you.” Bill says.

“What about your partner? Does he have any idea you’re here?”

“No.”

Sunny nods, slowly. “You’ve never told anyone about us, have you?”

Bill turns his glass around on the bar, focusing on the remnants of whiskey swirling at the bottom. 

“No.” He says, his voice holding a slight tremor. 

They sit in silence for a long minute. Then, Sunny asks if Bill has kids. Bill shows him a picture of Brian, and the next thing he knows, they’re talking about life and love and heartbreak, and the mundane things too, like work and politics. After more than an hour, Sunny announces that he should be getting home because Sam will be wondering where he’s at. 

They exchange their goodbyes in the parking lot before going their separate ways. Bill sits in his car listening to the engine run while Sunny’s car sinks out of view in the rearview mirror. He figures it's the last time they’ll talk outside of the investigation, but the thought doesn’t relieve him like he’d thought it would when he knocked on Sunny’s door. Once this killer is caught, will he be able to move on from it like every other case they’ve closed? He already knows the answer, but he’s too stubborn not to try. 

~

The hotel lobby is quiet except for the muted piano tunes tinkling from the speakers when Bill returns from the bar. With three whiskeys humming through his veins, he’s keenly focused on putting one foot in front of the other side, and getting himself back to his room as quickly as possible. As he approaches the elevator, Holden’s voice from across the lobby brings his gaze swiveling in the other direction. 

Holden raises his hand from the hotel bar where he’s sitting at one of the tables with a drink and the case file open in front of him.

Bill suppresses a flare of worry and frustration as he shuffles across the lobby to where Holden is seated. 

“Where were you?” Holden asks, his gaze curiously combing Bill’s alcohol-flushed cheeks. 

“Getting a drink that’s somewhere other than a hotel bar.” Bill says. 

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Speak for yourself.” Bill says, checking his watch. “It’s almost eleven-thirty.”

“I can’t get him out of my mind.” Holden says, glancing down at the photograph of Andrew Lindower in his highschool graduation cap and robe. 

“What about him?”

“Something his mom said to me.” Holden says. “She said I reminded her of him.”

Bill circles the table to get a better look at the picture. Squinting, he can see it in the eyes. 

“All the victims are similar.” Holden says, pulling out the pictures of Marshal Hanes, Benjamin Harkness, and Arthur Richards. “Some of them were older than Andrew, but their looks are the same. I wonder what the killer sees when he looks at them.”

Bill pulls out the chair across from Holden, and sits down with a sigh. “Maybe they represent someone to him.”

“Maybe.” Holden says, “I know what I see.”

“What’s that?”

“Vulnerability.” Holden says, “Confusion. Fear. They go to that club looking for their identity and acceptance. They’re easy pickings for a guy like him.”

“We profiled that he was angry, unfulfilled.” 

“And we weren’t wrong. Killing is the only thing in his life that he truly enjoys and has complete control over.” Holden says, “He's a narcissist and a classic psychopath. He has no emotions, but he can fake them. He makes these vulnerable men feel seen and desired. They go with him because he makes them feel wanted.”

“What does that tell us?”

“He just killed a senator’s son.” Holden says, “He’s smart, maybe smarter than I gave him credit for in the original profile. I think he just became ten times harder to catch.”

Bill shakes his head. “If Wilson hadn’t done such a terrible job at the beginning maybe we wouldn’t have to be here.”

“He’s gotten away with it too many times. He’ll be careful now. We really need to get into that club.”

Bill clears his throat, glancing away to avoid Holden seeing the truth in his eyes. 

“Maybe we’ll catch a break.” He says. 

“I don’t know. That would be a first with this case.” 

“I do know one thing.” Bill says, climbing to his feet with a weary sigh. “I need a shower and sleep. We’re not going to catch a break sitting here in the hotel bar beating our heads into the wall over it.” 

“Yeah.” Holden says, offering a limp smile. 

“You coming?” Bill asks, heading for the door of the hotel bar. 

Holden nods. Tossing a few bills on the table, he leaves his drink half-full, and gathers up the case files. 

While they wait for the elevator, Bill peeks a glance at Holden from the corner of his eye. A sudden, deep yearning opens up in the pit of his belly, a chasm he’d been plastering over for years with every other kind of fulfillment he could manage. The conversation with Sunny had ripped back the curtain, exposing the lies. He’s staring directly at the sun now with no protection from the blinding truth.

_ If he told Holden now what would happen?  _ The thought springs to his mind, but he quickly crushes it. 

Telling Holden about Sunny and the past could destroy everything - his pride, his authority, his reputation. He can’t imagine how severe the consequences would be if he dug even deeper, down through layers of denial and shame that cover a longing he’s been wrestling with since the moment he saw Holden from across the Quantico cafeteria. 

The elevator doors ding open, and Bill ushers the thought out of his mind. It simply isn’t possible - not in this world or the next. 


	4. safe havens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunny agrees to assist the investigation, and Holden proposes a bold plan.

**Wisconsin, 1964**

When Holden was fourteen, his father moved them to Milwaukee, Wisconsin from Ohio for his job with the newspaper. He was getting his own byline, and that was all that seemed to matter. His mother had never cried about the move, but Holden could see that she was devastated to be leaving behind the friends that she cherished while her family was far away in New York. 

_ The business of news is always changing. You have to go where the stories are.  _ His father had said as they packed up their belongings into the station wagon. His mother hadn’t argued; she never did. 

In Milwaukee, Holden did his best to fit in with the other boys in the private school his parents enrolled him in. The school was run by the adjoining Lutheran church, a rigid establishment with high, moral protocols and Christ-like expectations of their youth. Still, no one seemed to notice or care about upstanding, Christian behavior when Holden was pushed to the ground nearly every day during recess, or divested of his trousers in the gym locker room. While the choir sang things like “Amazing Grace” and “I’ve Got the Joy,” Holden sat alone in the far end of the auditorium pew, feeling his world growing progressively smaller and darker. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find equal footing with other boys or anyone who shared his same interests. But his father’s job at the newspaper was going very well, better than expected, and the Ford patriarch declared the relocation a success. 

A year later, in an attempt to get him to make more friends, his mother signed him up for church summer camp. In mid-July, almost fifty boys and girls, ages ranging between seven and eighteen, piled onto two school buses, and trekked all the way down to Tennessee where a hundred acres of wildlife, cabins, and games offered a week-long getaway of fun and “finding God.” 

Holden fully expected to spend the entire week being tormented and shunned, but two hours into the trip, a boy a few years older than him with sandy blond hair and a smattering of freckles beneath his sky blue eyes plopped down beside him. 

“Hi.” He said, “I’m Jake.”

“Um, hi.” 

“It’s Holden, right?”

“Yeah. Do you go to my school?” Holden asked, cautiously. 

“Yeah, but my family just moved there.” Jake said. Holden noticed that his lower front teeth were chipped, and he had a noticeable scar on his chin. “I figured we could hang out since we’re both the outcasts.”

“I’m not an outcast.” Holden said, scowling. 

“Sure you are. You’re sitting here all by yourself, and not talking to anyone.” 

Holden sighed, and turned his gaze back to the window at the landscape speeding past them. He’d been through this before - being approached by some older kid pretending to be his friend solely out of a bid to humiliate him when he responded. 

“Fine. But this seat is open so I’m sitting here.” Jake said after a long minute. 

A few hours later, Jake pulled a book out of his backpack, and spread it open on his lap. Telling himself it was out of pure boredom, Holden started discreetly reading over his shoulder. Jake didn’t say anything, but he shifted the book over so that the spine rested between their knees. 

Once they reached the camp, the chaperones began handing out cabin assignments. Everyone had to pick a buddy to share a bunk with because the camp attendance was so high that year. Jake quickly threw his arm around Holden’s shoulders to claim him. Holden was relieved, but he figured this decision was going to put a target on Jake’s back. 

He told Jake as much later that day when they were waiting in line to be picked for teams in whiffle ball. 

“If you hang out with me, everybody is going to hate you.” Holden said. 

“So.” Jake shrugged. “I hate everybody in the world.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Everybody except maybe you, Holden.”

Later, when two bullies who constantly harassed Holden in school attempted to corner Jake and steal a bag of candy that he’d won during trivia, Jake proved that he wasn’t afraid of the older boys. In fact, he punched one of them in the gut and the other in the ear. He was dragged away by chaperones for punishment, but came back a few hours later smiling triumphantly. 

The bullies didn’t try to harangue Holden for the rest of the week as long as Jake was around. Holden had never seen them so cowed. 

Each night when they went to bed, Jake would pull out his flashlight, tug the covers over their heads and open his copy of  _ David Copperfield.  _ They read under the sheets until the chaperone would yell for whoever had the flashlight to turn it off and go to sleep already. They were roused every morning at first light for breakfast followed by chapel and prayers, but Holden didn’t care about the missed sleep. The best part of his day was hiding under the covers with Jake’s body close up against his while they traveled far away with the orphaned David. 

On Friday, as the week was coming to a close, the July air was dense with suffocating humidity. At midday, with the sun reaching its peak, the heat was almost unbearable; still, the chaperones coaxed the boys out of their cabins for games of football and soccer. Nobody noticed when Holden stayed behind. 

He took a shower in one of the five, unoccupied stalls inside the cabin, enjoying the silence and solitude. The bathroom was the only place the older boys could get to him when Jake wasn’t around, and he’d had more than one shower curtain ripped open on him. He stood underneath the cool spray for a long time, letting the sweat wash away, thinking about how things might look different at school now that he had Jake as his friend. 

When he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist, Holden saw Jake leaning over the row of grimy sinks, rinsing his mouth with water. The mirrors were steamed from his lengthy shower, but Holden could see that Jake’s mouth was bleeding. 

“What happened?” He asked. 

“Elbow to the face.” Jake said, straightening from the sink, and turning to gaze at Holden with his pale, blue eyes. “They sent me in because it’s supposed to be flag football.” 

“Oh.” Holden said, clutching the towel around his waist. 

Jake moved away from the sink, his sneakers squeaking across the wet tile. He scraped one hand through his shaggy hair as he moved closer, his teeth worrying against his split lower lip. 

“Nobody noticed you didn’t come out.” Jake said as he reached Holden. 

He was taller than Holden by a few inches, and Holden had to tilt his head back to meet Jake’s somber gaze. There was an undertone of something undefinable, intractable, a magnetic pull that Holden had never experienced with anyone else before. Underneath the towel, he felt hot and tight, a strange, uncomfortable sensation that he suddenly, desperately wanted to escape. 

But he couldn’t run as Jake reached up to touch his cheek. His fingers were warm and blunt, his palm calloused despite his youth. His mouth tasted of candy and soda and the coppery tang of blood when he bent down to softly kiss Holden on the mouth. 

Holden stood paralyzed for several long moments before finding the will to pull back. He felt his bare back hit the corner of the shower stall. Everything in him was screaming panic except for that rising heat that wouldn’t seem to go away. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” Jake asked, stepping closer. “Don’t be afraid.”

“This is wrong. We’re gonna go to hell.”

“No we aren’t.” 

Jake seemed so confident in that fact that Holden couldn’t argue any further as Jake cornered him back into the stall. He pulled the shower curtain shut behind them, containing their heavy breaths into the small, humid space. 

“I really like you.” Jake whispered, “Don’t you like me?”

“Yes, but-”

“But don’t listen to what they have to say. They don’t know what they’re talking about.” 

“But the pastor says that-”

“Forget him. What do you want?” 

Holden thought about it for a second, but it only took him half that amount of time to figure out what Jake meant. He let out a shaky breath, and tilted his head back. 

“Okay.” 

He wasn’t really sure what he should be doing with his mouth or his hands, but Jake kissed him confidently, soothing any kind of anxiety. Then the towel dropped from his waist. 

On Sunday, everyone piled back into the buses to return home to Milwaukee. Jake and Holden sat side-by-side for the duration of the ride, hardly talking. Inside, Holden was terrified; he felt like everyone could see past his skull and into his brain, to the truth of what had happened in that bathroom. He wasn’t sure how he would hide it from his parents, from his pastor, from God - but he had to try. 

Back home, Holden spent the rest of the weekend worrying and begging God for forgiveness. When he went back to school on Monday, he avoided all of Jake’s attempts to talk to him or sit with him. Jake persisted for a long time, weeks even. He tried offering his defense from the bullies despite Holden’s reticence, but Holden refused. He would rather face the bullies than repeat the dirty, sinful encounter at camp. 

A few months later, Jake came into school with a black eye. He muttered something about his dad and the police. Then, just as abruptly as he’d appeared in Holden’s life, he vanished. 

Some people said his family moved again to avoid scandal. Some said his father owed the government a lot of money. Some of them said Jake was being taken away from his parents by the state, and his life was going to end up a wreck just like his dad’s. Holden didn’t care about the rumors, or the horrible things the other boys said about Jake in the months that came. He couldn’t understand why, after he had spent so much time trying to get away from Jake and forgetting what they’d done, that now he so terribly, desperately wanted him to come back again. 

~

**Georgia, 1983**

  
  


At the eight thirty in the morning, the precinct coffee is fresh, and the sunlight stretching through the open blinds into the conference room is invigorating. Holden’s pulse spikes as he pins Jason’s sketch of the unsub on the corkboard beside the other array of photographic evidence. The sketch is lacking in fine detail, but it’s a start - an outline of a face in the dark. 

“It isn’t much.” Taft says, announcing Holden’s thoughts. “Jason admitted he was pretty drunk by the time he saw Andrew leave with this guy, and it’s really dark inside the club. It’s in a basement, no windows.” 

Holden cocks his head as he gazes at the bland face in the sketch. Jason had remembered the guy having a mustache. Whether that detail was accurate or not, none of them could be sure. 

“We need to start proliferating it around to the club and the victims’ friends and families.” Holden says, “It’s a start.” 

“We can do our best with it from here, too.” Taft says, “I’m having someone pull all of the assault records for the past five years like you suggested.” 

“We need to get some uniforms in here to help us sort through them.” Holden says. 

“I can do that. I had another talk with Morris this morning, and it seems like Lindower has lit a fire under his ass to speed up the investigation.” Taft says. 

Holden glances over his shoulder when Bill ambles through the door, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand, and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. 

“Sorry I’m late.” He says, “I don’t think the alarm clock in my hotel room is working.”

“It’s okay.” Holden says, tamping down his suspicion as Bill takes a seat at the conference table. “We were just saying that this sketch Jason provided is pretty basic.”

Bill grabs a copy of the sketch from the middle of the conference room table, and examines it. 

“This could be any number of guys.” Bill says, uttering a frustrated sigh. “He couldn’t get anymore detailed than this?”

“He apologized.” Taft says, “But, he said he was pretty wasted that night, and the club was too dark to see very well.” 

“Christ.” Bill says, shaking his head. “He saw the killer with his own two eyes. We’re within reach here.” 

“I’m also pulling assault records.” Taft says, “Holden suggested we get some uniforms to help us go through and cross-check against the profile.” 

“Good idea.” Bill says. 

A tap on the door of the conference room draws their attention away from the sketch, and to the secretary hovering in the doorway. 

“Excuse me.” She says, “There’s a call for you on line two.” 

“Me?” Taft asks. 

“All of you. He said his name was, um …” She consults the Post-It she’d scribbled on. “Ted Gunn, from the FBI.” 

“Thanks, Anita.” Taft says, “We’ll take it in here.” 

When she’s gone, Holden joins them at the table with a sigh. “Anyone want to place bets on whether or not Senator Lindower called to complain yesterday?” 

“It’ll be fine.” Bill says, holding up a hand. “He understands what we’re up against.” 

“Does he?” Holden mutters. 

Bill leans over to drag the telephone to the center of the table. Punching the button for line two, he clears his throat. 

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning.” Ted’s voice crackles from the other end of the line, holding the same blase confidence it always does. 

“You have me, Holden, and Detective Taft here.” Bill says. 

“Great. I’d just like to check in, see how things are progressing.” Ted says. 

“Fine, I think.” Bill says, his tone practiced and cautious. “We’ve tracked down an eyewitness who was with Andrew the night he disappeared, and have a sketch of the suspect that we’ll be showing to friends and family. We’re also pulling assault records from the last five years since Holden thinks he might have a record.” 

“Good work.” Ted says, “That’s a lot in one day.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

“And you had a chance to speak with Senator Lindower and his wife?” 

Silence settles across the conference room for a moment. Holden clenches his jaw.  _ Time to rip off the bandaid.  _

“We went in as gently as we could.” Holden says, leaning forward to address the telephone. “But, it’s become clear that Andrew’s death is linked to the other three whether the senator wants it to be that way or not. The eyewitness Bill mentioned put Andrew in the Golden Falcon that night between 1:30 and 3:00 in the morning.” 

“I see.” Ted says. 

“No one is making assumptions anymore. It's a fact.” Holden says. 

“Just as I thought.” Ted says, “But I had hoped the Columbus police department would be a little more discreet on the matter.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but what do you mean?” Taft asks. 

“Have you turned on the television this morning?” 

The three of them exchange glances, but no one knows what Ted is hedging at. 

“No.” Bill says. 

“It’s gotten out to the news.” Ted says, “Someone in the department let something slip. I hope this wasn’t some veiled attempt to get the unsub out in the open.” 

“No, we wouldn’t do something like that without permission.” Holden says. 

Bill shoots him a dubious glance, and Holden returns it with a scowl. 

“George called me this morning, very upset.” Ted says, “His son is being labeled a homosexual by the news stations after I promised him that that wouldn’t happen. This is now a matter of great urgency if it wasn’t before. I’m glad to see you’ve made progress, but for the senator’s sake and everyone involved, we must do everything in our power to put this to rest.” 

“We’re doing all we can.” Taft says, “But please, if there’s some other assistance you can offer aside from having Bill and Holden here with me, let me know what it is.” 

“Just do what you do best, Detective.” Ted says, “And Bill and Holden, I expect an update at the end of the day. I’ll be calling George to assure him we had nothing to do with this.” 

“Of course.” Bill says, “Give him our apologies.” 

After they hang up, Bill sits back in his chair with a dejected glare focused on the telephone. Taft gets up, and slowly paces in front of the corkboard, scanning all of the information they have gathered so far. 

“How are we supposed to ramp up the investigation if we can’t get into that club?” He asks, “Bill, I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we get a warrant.” 

Holden gets up out of his chair abruptly, and walks down the hallway to the breakroom. The television is playing the news at low volume, but he quickly recognizes the Lindower home in the background of the news anchor’s report. He turns up the volume, and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“And now, we’re receiving reports that police arrested a suspect yesterday who is rumored to have been Lindower’s male lover.” The news anchor says, her face pinched with salacious disgust. “Lindower was a lettered athlete, starring in both football and basketball. He took his team to the championship his senior year, earning him a scholarship to study at Harvard where he was in his third year studying to become a criminal defense attorney. He leaves behind a girlfriend of four years who friends say he planned to propose to in coming months. Sources have yet to confirm the identity of the male lover who they say led Andrew into the homosexual lifestyle. His father, Senator George Lindower, has been a longtime member of the Republican party, and advocate of the police department’s campaign to clean up the streets surrounding the area where the club, The Golden Falcon is located. The gay bar has been the focal point of the brutal slayings …”

Holden glances up when Bill wanders into the breakroom to join him. 

“It’s starting.” Holden says, shaking his head. 

“It was bound to come out eventually.” 

“Not like this. These people have no respect for the victims. Andrew has been dead five days, and they’re already speculating on his sexuality.” 

“It’s the media. What do you expect?” 

“Some common courtesy. They just lost their son, and they already have TV cameras pointed at their home.” Holden says, waving a defeated hand at the television. “Senator Lindower has every right to be upset.” 

“Come on.” Bill says, “There’s nothing we can do about it now except get back to work.” 

Holden sighs wearily, but follows Bill back down the hallway. As they round the corner into the conference room, they both halt at the sight of Robert Sunder standing in front of the corkboard with Taft. 

“Bill, Holden-” Taft says, waving them inside, “Mr. Sunder. He owns the Golden Falcon, if you’ll recall.” 

“Yes, of course.” Holden says, hurrying across the room to shake Sunder’s hand. 

“Sunny, please.” He says, clutching Holden’s hand in a firm, warm grasp. 

“Holden Ford. Nice to meet you.” Holden says, “I didn’t think our first conversation would go like this.” 

Sunny’s mouth tilts with a sad smile. “Me either.” 

Holden stands aside while Bill shuffles across the room to shake Sunny’s hand. His jaw is clenched, eyes barely reaching up from the ground as Sunny’s right hand meets his palm and his left hand clutches over Bill’s knuckles. 

“Bill Tench.” Bill says, his voice more subdued than usual. 

“Wonderful to meet you.” Sunny says, his handshake lingering a second too long. 

Holden frowns as Bill retrieves his hand, and musters a strained smile. There’s a beat of silence that stretches out into buzzing tension. Bill’s cheeks are faintly flushed. 

Sunny clears his throat. “Should we all sit down?” 

“Yes, of course.” Taft says, putting a hand on Sunny’s elbow, and waving them towards the table. 

Holden peeks at Bill’s stoic profile as they assemble around the table. The curiosity he’d been smothering since they first reviewed the cases together arises like a flood, too great to hold back. He doesn’t think he’s imagining things when he sees the light of familiarity in Bill’s eyes, perhaps even an affection, and the same in Sunny’s gaze. He has no physical facts to purport that they know each other somehow, but the behavioral evidence is staring Holden right in the face. 

“I’ve had a lot of time to think.” Sunny says, “I’m sure you know about my relationship with your predecessor, Detective Taft. It wasn’t exactly one of mutual respect.” 

“No.” Taft says, “I understand why you were reluctant.” 

“Yes, I was, but it’s time to set aside my personal pride. Men, some of them friends of mine, are dying. Their lives are more important than anything, even the privacy of my club; and I would rather work with you than be forced to cooperate with a search warrant.” 

“Well, that’s a relief.” Taft says, “That isn’t how I wanted it to go either.” 

“I brought the security footage from the night of Andrew’s disappearance.” Sunny says, pulling a VHS tape out of his pocket, and sliding it across the table to Taft. “Unfortunately, I do not have the resources to keep tapes from months ago so I don’t have the footage from the last night Marshal was there, but I hope what I do have can help.” 

“Thank you for this.” Taft says, sliding the tape in front of him. “But I think we’re going to need more than that.” 

Sunny nods. “Yes. I figured as much.” 

“What we’d really like to do is put someone undercover in the club.” Bill says, leaning forward to brace his elbows against the table. “We think it would be most effective to try to catch the killer in his comfort zone, when he’s hunting.” 

Sunny’s mouth purses, and his brow creases with a frown. “Hunting.” 

“Yes, as grotesque as it sounds that’s how he views it.” Bill says, his voice growing quieter. 

Holden clears his throat to interrupt the tension dwelling in the scarce silences between remarks. 

“Would you be willing to let us in?” Holden asks. 

Sunny’s misty gaze breaks away from Bill to meet Holden’s. “The last time I found a cop in my club, he was trying to bring me in through entrapment.” 

“Nobody is planning on entrapping anyone but the killer.” Bill says. “You have our word.” 

“What does your word mean? Because this is my livelihood. I have fought tooth and nail to keep the doors of the Falcon open for the past thirty years despite harassment from the police and religious fanatics. It’s a place where men can come when they’re rejected and hated by their families and society. I have to know this choice won’t burn it to the ground.” 

“You’re right.” Bill says, gazing at his lap for a moment before gently meeting Sunny’s defensive glare. “It is a safe haven. Or it  _ was _ , until a killer started using it as his hunting ground. All we want to do is remove that scourge so your community can go back to feeling safe again.” 

Sunny leans back in his chair, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You said that like a true ally, Agent Tench.” 

Bill’s gaze drops towards his lap again, and his shoulders twitch with a hitched breath. 

Holden shifts in his chair, feeling like he’s standing too close to an open electric current stretching out between Sunny and Bill. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly he’s desperate to break it, or at least cover it up so that Taft doesn’t take notice. 

Holden clears his throat, and says, “We’re here to fight for all victims. Not just the ones society deems worthy.” 

Sunny gives a short, hoarse chuckle. “All right, then. If you’re leading the charge, then I give you my permission. But you’ll need someone to vouch for you.” 

“You know Jason Veruhous?” Bill asks. 

“Yes.” 

“He’s willing to work with us. Can he validate whoever we send in?” 

“Of course.” Sunny says, “Jason is a good boy. I hope you’ve treated him well.”

“Better than the media, at any rate.” Holden mutters. 

“Well,” Taft says, clearing his throat and rising from his chair, “This has been a productive conversation, Mr. Sunder. We’ll contact you with the particulars.” 

“Please do.” Sunny says. 

Bill gets up from his chair, and motions for Sunny to follow him. “I’ll walk you out.” 

“Thank you.” Sunny says. 

Holden watches them leave, his thoughts spiraling into an impatient tailspin. He can’t stop thinking about how defensive Bill had become when Holden asked if he’d ever heard of the Falcon, or how Bill had come back to the hotel so late last night, or how he looked at Sunny like the man, who should have been a complete stranger, was a ghost of the past. 

“What is it?” Taft asks, noting Holden’s distant gaze. 

“Nothing.” Holden mutters. 

He breezes past Taft, and marches across the bullpen to the lobby. Lingering in the doorway, he can see through the front windows of the precinct to the sidewalk where Bill and Sunny are standing, each of them smoking a cigarette. 

Sunny is turned fully to face Bill, his body language relaxed and open. Bill has one hand tucked in his pocket while the other is occupied with his cigarette. He’s looking out at the bustling street, not meeting Sunny’s gaze. 

Holden watches them until Sunny snuffs out his cigarette, and pulls his keys out of his pocket. His other hand brushes up against Bill’s elbow before he turns and walks down the sidewalk to his car. Bill stands still until Sunny drives past him and down the road, until the car turns the corner and disappears, and his cigarette dwindles and falls to the sidewalk. 

When he turns to come back into the precinct, Holden slips back into the bullpen, and hurries back to the conference room. The exchange isn’t exactly what he’d call proof, rather more of a suggestion, an idea that’s rooted itself in his mind like a weed that won’t easily be shaken free; and for all of Bill’s sharp edges and defenses, he never has been any good at keeping the truth from Holden, at least not for long. 

~

The security footage that Sunny provided turns out to be less helpful than they’d hoped. The picture is in grainy black-and-white, displaying a fuzzy image of the front door and back doors from an overhead angle. They can see Andrew arrive at the club with Jason and leave an hour and half later with someone else, but the man escorting him has his head turned down and away from the camera. 

“He’s not an idiot.” Bill says, “He knows where the cameras are.” 

“We can’t get this footage any clearer?” Holden asks, dismayed. 

“We can try to have someone clarify it, but the original quality is so poor.” Taft says, “I’m not sure it’s worth the effort.” 

“Why don’t they have cameras inside the club?” Holden asks, waving an exasperated hand at the grainy, jagged clips staggering across the television screen. “This is worthless.” 

“Privacy.” Bill says, “If the wrong person ever got their hands on that kind of tape, it could ruin a lot of people’s lives.” 

Holden exhales a frustrated sigh, but he knows Bill is right; and considering the stakes of being a gay man in Georgia, he can hardly blame Sunny for the purposeful oversight. 

At ten o’clock, they convene with Chief Morris to discuss a plan of action for the undercover surveillance. By midday, they have a team of five uniformed officers and five other homicide detectives assembled to assist them with the paperwork and the operation at the Golden Falcon. 

Everyone gathers in the conference room for Bill and Holden to present the profile of the man that they’re looking for. 

Holden holds up Jason’s sketch of the unsub for everyone to see. 

“Take a long look at this face.” He says, scanning the group of officers and detectives to make certain he has their attention. “We don’t have a name or suspect yet, but we have a face. And we know based on the crime scenes the type of person that we’re looking for.” 

“He’s white, between the ages of 25 and 35.” Bill says, “Now, age is the factor that’s most indeterminable, so that’s why the range is so wide. He could be older, but he’s more than likely not younger than 25. Based on the nature of the crimes and the care he takes with the body and the staging, he’s someone with more experience.” 

“Which leads us to the cross-checking we’re doing with assault records.” Holden says, “We’re looking for petty theft, larceny, possible drug offenses, but most importantly, assault. This is a violent, unfulfilled perpetrator. He’s a narcissist with a hair-trigger temper. He’s a psychopath who can fake regular emotions for a little while and smooth talk his way into someone’s life, but it won’t take long for him to reveal a deep-seated anger that influences almost every aspect of his life.” 

“Wouldn’t someone like that stand out?” One of the detectives asks. 

“Unfortunately, we’re dealing with a suspect pool that’s had a lot of run-ins with the law.” Bill says, “A lot of the men who patronize the Falcon have been arrested, and know what it’s like to spend a night in jail.” 

“Right.” Holden says, “And a lot of these men also live transient lifestyles, or frequently change jobs. This is another hallmark in the unsub’s life. He’s above average intelligence, but because of his narcissistic personality, he has trouble dealing with authority and in turn holding a steady job. We also believe that there’s been some significant change or disturbance in his life recently that triggered him to kill - we call it a stressor. This could be anything from loss of a job, separation from a spouse or significant other, or some kind of financial downfall.” 

“This sounds like a lot of guys we’ve run into down at that club.” Another detective interjects, waving a dismissive hand in disgust. “Out-of-work, drug addict losers.” 

“Yeah.” The man seated beside him agrees. “We’ve had our fair share of encounters with all those degenerates at that club, and they’re all the same.” 

A rumble of agreement circulates the conference room. Holden glances over at Bill, but Bill’s forehead is tilted down into the quietly frustrated pressure of his fingertips. 

Holden swings his gaze back to the detectives, and interrupts the disgruntled hum of conversation. “Our guy isn’t a loser. He’s self-involved, and he takes care of himself. When we send the undercover into the club, they’re going to be looking for someone who is well-dressed and groomed. He isn’t going to be hanging out with a large crowd or specific group. He isn’t going to be using drugs or be black-out drunk. He’s a loner, on the fringes, like a hunter hiding in the trees searching for just the right prey to cull from the herd. He picks out the most vulnerable, the least confident, and seduces them into going with him. He makes them trust him before he gets them alone, where no one can hear their cries for help. Only then does he reveal his true nature - a sadist who gets off on their pain and tortures them for hours until they die.” 

Silence settles across the conference room. Holden puts the sketch down on the table, and slides it towards the middle of the group. 

“I hope everyone is taking notes.” He says, “We need everyone on board and focusing on the details - but only one of you is going to be our mole.”

He could almost hear a pin drop in the silence that comes next. Someone’s shoe scuffs against the carpet as they shift uncomfortably in their chair. The uniformed officers are looking at the more seasoned detectives, and the detectives are sharing nervous glances among themselves. 

Taft clears his throat. “Bill, Holden, why don’t you give us a minute to talk it over?” 

Holden shoots Bill an irritated glance. 

Bill nods. “Okay. Holden, let’s go grab a cup of coffee.” 

Holden pulls the conference room door shut on their heels, and turns to cast Bill an exasperated scowl. 

“Tough crowd.” Bill says. 

“They’re chicken-shit, that’s what.” Holden says, marching past him towards the breakroom. 

Bill shuffles into the breakroom behind him, and leans against the doorjamb as Holden pours himself a cup of coffee. 

“If it was a gentleman’s strip club, they’d all be jumping at the opportunity.” Holden says, ripping open a sugar packet with more force than necessary. 

“Can you blame them?” Bill asks, “They’re cops. Nobody wants to be seen as-”

“As what? Doing their job?”

“This is Georgia.” Bill says, uttering a sigh. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Most of these guys have probably spent more time trying to shut that club down than giving its patrons a helping hand.” 

“Men are dying.” Holden says, pivoting to meet Bill’s weary gaze. “People with lives, friends, family. All they see are sexually deviant degenerates. I’m sorry, but after the work we’ve done, the killers we’ve talked to, and seeing the darkest corners of human behavior that the world has to offer, I’m convinced that none of these men are the threat this entire department thinks they are.” 

Bill ducks his head, and draws in a deep breath. 

“What?” Holden demands. “You disagree?” 

“No.” Bill says, softly. 

“You weren’t exactly supporting me in there either.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Did you see their faces?” Holden asks, “None of those men give a shit about the victims. In fact, I think I saw one of them smirking. People listen to you, Bill. Maybe if you had spoken up they would have-”

“Would have what?” Bill says, his eyes flashing darker like storm clouds. “Changed their minds about who is worth their time and who isn’t? A senator’s son is dead, but because he was a faggot, they still don’t care. What could I have said to make them give a shit?” 

“I don’t know. Something. Anything. Maybe a little bit of the same care and compassion that I saw you express to Robert Sunder this morning.” 

Bill’s jaw clenches, and his nostrils flare with a sharp inhale. His gaze cuts away from Holden’s in a harried attempt to hide the impact Holden’s observation had made. A hot flush crawls past the white collar of his shirt to taint the chiseled edge of his jawline while the vein snaking across his temple throbs. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Well, he sure seemed interested in you.” Holden mutters, tossing his stir straw in the trash. 

“What the fuck are you implying?” Bill demands, his gaze swinging back to Holden with a flare of anger. 

Before Holden can muster a reply, Taft raps his knuckles on the doorframe of the breakroom. 

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” He asks. 

“No, of course not.” Bill says, “What did you decide?” 

“I’m not sure.” Taft says, “None of them want to do it, which is what I was afraid of. They’re worried about being in contact with these men, and getting sick.” 

Holden sighs aloud, and rubs a hand over his eyes. “You’re shitting me.” 

“No, I’m sorry.” Taft says, “One of them went so far as to suggest he receive hazard pay in the scenario that he would somehow contract AIDS inside the club.” 

“Jesus.” Bill mutters, “This isn’t going to work if we don’t have someone trustworthy to send in.” 

“Is this the only way?” Taft asks, “Maybe there’s an angle we haven’t thought of yet that-”

“No. This is it.” Holden says, crossing the room and shouldering his way past Bill and Taft. 

They hasten to follow him down the hallway and back to the bullpen. Holden marches past the other detectives’ desks, ignoring the curious stares, and stops at Taft’s desk where the case files are piled on the corner. 

“What are you doing?” Bill asks as Holden begins flipping open the folders, and pulling out the pictures of the victims. 

Holden arranges the pictures in a row: Marshal, Arthur, Benjamin, and Andrew. 

“Look at them.” He says, waving his hand across the photographs. “They’re all similar in looks, build, and personality. Dark hair, three with blue eyes, one with green. Smaller build, unimposing. Arthur was the oldest out of all of them at twenty-five, but he could easily pass for someone five years younger.”

“What’s your point?” Taft asks, bracing his hands on his hips. 

Holden picks Andrew’s picture out of the lineup, and holds it up next to his face. 

“What was the first thing Lillian Lindower noticed when we were introduced?” 

Bill and Taft stare at him for a long moment before realization registers in Bill’s eyes. 

“Holden, no-”

“Yes.” Holden says, firmly. “I’m the obvious choice. Physically, I fit the victim type, and I know the profile because I wrote it. None of those other men in there have the understanding or the will to do what needs to be done.”

“Absolutely not.” Bill says, a scowl forming on his brow. “I am not letting you put yourself out there as bait, Holden. You are way too important to this investigation, not to mention all the other active cases we have open right this moment.” 

“No, I’m not.” Holden says, his voice softening. “I am not more important than what is going on right now, in this city, at that club. I am not more important than one more man needlessly dying at the hands of this bastard.” 

Taft and Bill exchange conflicted glances. Taft scrubs a hand over his forehead and through his hair. 

“Come on, Ambrose.” Bill says, disbelief bubbling up in his tone. “Back me up here.”

“He makes a lot of good points.” Taft says, gesturing at the photograph of Andrew still clutched on Holden’s hand. 

“Seriously?” 

“Look,” Taft says, exhaling a sigh, “I can force any one of those detectives to take this assignment. I can force them all to take turns going into the club each night. I can go in there myself, and do it. But I don’t fit the victim type, and most of those guys in there don’t have the insight into the profile that Holden does.” 

“This is unbelievable.” Bill says, putting his hands on his hips and pacing away with a strained expression. “Just how exactly do you think you’re going to convince Ted to agree to this?” 

“I’ll talk to him.” Holden says, “But I think he’ll see my point.” 

“It’s too dangerous.” 

“He’s not going to attack me in public.” Holden says, “I’ll wear a wire. You can listen in the whole time. It’ll be safe.” 

“That’s not the word I would use.” 

“As safe as we can make it.” Holden amends. “I’ll just be in there observing, looking for anyone who fits the profile. If I approach him, it’ll be in public view of the rest of the club. It’ll only be dangerous if he gets me alone - which won’t happen.” 

Bill pauses, his gaze lingering wearily against Holden’s. Holden can see the gradual breakdown of his disbelief, the realization that Holden is right creeping out underneath, but he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Holden. I can’t let you do this.”

~

In the dim light of the hollowed out van, Holden checks his watch. It’s just past ten-thirty at night, the preface of a long night on stakeout, watching the entrance of the Falcon and listening to the audio from inside the club for any sign of their killer. 

The unmarked van is parked on the curb just around the corner from the Falcon, offering a straight sightline to the steps descending to the basement. All of the seats have been removed except for the front two, and the back is decked out with surveillance equipment. 

Taft hands the wire over to Bill. “It’s all ready. The mic feed goes straight to us so we can hear every word.” 

Bill holds up the tiny mic attached to the end of the cord. “It’s pretty small.”

“It’s the best on the market.” Taft says, “Senator Lindower has opened up the purse strings to help us out.” 

“Ted was able to smooth things over, then?” Holden says. 

“I guess so. Deep down, he really wants this guy caught more than all of us.” Taft says. 

“Okay.” Bill says, drawing in a deep breath. “This is it. Taft, can you give us a minute?” 

“Sure.” Taft says. 

He climbs out of the van, and pulls the door quietly shut behind him. 

Holden glances up to see Bill's eyes gleaming with concern and his mouth pursed in a thin line. 

“Open your shirt.” He says, motioning for Holden to move closer. 

Holden turns the chair to face Bill, and drags it a foot in so that their knees are facing one another. He unbuttons the front of his shirt, a silk garment with orange and black geometric patterns. He’s in black trousers and loafers with a gold chain around his neck to complete the look. 

Bill tucks the battery pack into Holden’s waistband, and rips off a piece of tape from the roll. 

“Run through it again for me.” Bill says, quietly as he tapes the wire to Holden’s belly. 

“Bill, it’s going to be fine.” Holden says, bracing his hands against his knees.

“I’m serious.” Bill says, firmly, his gaze flicking up from the wire to pin Holden with a glare that barely conceals his resentment of this plan. 

“My name is Jacob Sherman. I just moved here from Milwaukee for an internship with a local law firm.” Holden says, “I was a friend of Andrew Lindower’s. We met at college. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m single.” 

Bill uses another piece of tape to adhere the wire to Holden’s ribs. His thumb presses over the adhesive, ensuring its tenacity. His hands are warm against the goosebumps rippling across Holden’s skin. 

Holden peeks a glance at Bill’s downturned face, his eyes focused on taping the wire to Holden’s body. 

“Satisfied?” Holden whispers. 

Bill scoffs in the back of his throat, and reaches over for another piece of tape. 

“Bill, please. It’s going to be fine. If anything happens, you’ll hear it. I’m going to have you right here with me.” He says, motioning to the wire. 

Bill lifts his head, his eyes somber, almost gray in the darkness of the windowless van. 

“I need you to be careful.” He says, “I’ve done undercover work, Holden. It’s nothing to play around with.” 

“I know it’s serious. I wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t.” 

“You get into situations with strangers, you have to think quickly about how to get yourself out safely.” Bill says, “You have no idea what that person is going to do or how they’re going to react. You’re not wearing a Kevlar vest or your sidearm. It's just you and your instincts.” 

“I know.” Holden says again, more firmly. 

Bill shakes his head as he tapes the wire to the side of Holden’s chest. “I’d be doing this myself if I could.” 

“You go undercover in a gay bar?” Holden asks, unable to suppress the smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Exactly.” Bill says, “Now button your shirt, and let me see how it looks.” 

Holden tugs the shirt closed over his chest, and buttons it midway up his sternum. The mic is concealed underneath the edge of the collar, but the silky fabric is thin enough to let audio slip cleanly past. 

“Looks good.” Bill says, “Let’s test it.” 

He switches on the recording device on the desk, and puts on the headphones. 

“Testing, testing.” Holden says, keeping his voice at normal volume. 

Bill pulls the headphones down around his neck, and nods. “Loud and clear.” 

Silence swells between them as Bill’s gaze fixes itself on Holden, mapping the unusually loose style of his hair, the determination in his eyes, the gold chain gleaming against his collarbones. The perusal is slow and meticulous, as if he’s cataloging Holden’s face and committing it to memory before he gets out of the van and goes into the club. 

“Okay.” He says, finally, drawing in a deep breath. “I think it’s go time.” 

“Yeah. I’m ready.” Holden says. 

He reaches over to unlatch the sliding door of the van, and steps out onto the sidewalk. Taft is leaning against the exterior, smoking a cigarette. 

“Good to go?” He asks. 

Holden nods. 

Taft climbs into the van, and takes the seat beside Bill that Holden vacated. 

Leaning over to grab the door handle, Bill offers Holden one last admonition. “Be careful.” 

Holden nods again, and the door slides shut, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. Drawing in a deep breath, Holden walks down the sidewalk to where Jason Veruhous is climbing out of another unmarked car several yards down. They meet halfway, across the street from the club entrance. 

“You don’t have to stay all night.” Holden says, “Just long enough to get me in the door and establish that we know each other.” 

Jason nods, teeth worrying at his lower lip. 

“Don’t be nervous.” Holden says, “We’ve got this place surrounded.” 

“Right.” Jason says, scraping a hand through his hair. 

“You remember the cover story?” 

“Yeah. You’re my buddy, Jake. Andrew introduced us. You guys met at college.”

“Good.” Holden says, “Let’s go.” 

They cross the street together to the narrow steps leading down into the club. The two bouncers at the door order them to show ID. Jason repeats the story he’d just told Holden, his tone more relaxed than Holden had expected. He’s quietly relieved when they’re both granted entrance. 

From outside, he could hear the bass of dance music, but when the door swings open, the sound is almost deafening. Just underneath the surge of the upbeat song blasting from the speakers, raucous conversation and laughter melds into a dull roar. 

At first, Holden can barely see anything. Then, as his eyes adjust to the dark and the sting of cigarette smoke hanging in the cramped air, he glimpses a tide of half-naked, male bodies, flesh tone of every color melting into one another, arms entwined, lips meeting, hips grinding under the rainbow flash of strobe lights. 

Jason’s arm winds through his, dragging him further into the shadowy fog, and it’s like being drawn into a whole other universe. 


	5. someone else's life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden's undercover job at the Falcon produces a lead, but a reckless mistake threatens to derail the case.

The day after Holden’s first visit to the Falcon, Andrew Lindower’s funeral is attended by over two hundred people. Bill, Holden, and the rest of the task force surveille the attendees, looking for anyone out of the ordinary, keeping to themselves, or paying too much attention to the gravesite. 

From their viewpoint in the unmarked car, Holden scans the crowd of black clad mourners surrounding the site where Andrew’s casket is being lowered into the ground. His eyes are dry and heavy, forcing him to refocus his attention on the task at hand every few minutes. 

After spending five hours inside the club last night, he’d finally gotten back to the hotel around two o’clock in the morning, exhausted, slightly drunk, and frustrated with what little traction he’d gained. He had spoken to a lot of different men at the club, but no one seemed interested in talking about Andrew or any of the other victims. Their grief was contained and repressed, hidden by rows of shots and hours of mindless dancing. 

“This is pointless.” Holden says, leaning back against the leather seat of the car. 

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, and meets Holden’s dull gaze. “He could show.” 

“It isn’t about this.” Holden says, “Not all killers revisit the dump sites or show up at memorials. There’s no remorse inside of him.” 

“It isn’t always about remorse. You know that.”

“My guess is, he keeps trophies.” Holden says, “Better yet, he films what he does to them.” 

“Could be.” 

“At any rate, he’s too smart to show his face here.” 

Bill sighs, but doesn’t argue. 

Holden slides lower in his chair, momentarily closing his eyes against the dry ache scratching behind his eyelids. His mind is far away from this car, back inside the dark confines of the Falcon.

It had been easier than he first assumed to slip into the role of Jacob Sherman, a mask with a quickly evolving face that had emerged more clearly with every interaction he’d had the previous night. Holden never would have allowed another man to touch him without flinching, but Jacob had let two different men buy him a drink and put their arms around his shoulders. He’d played a few rounds of pool, and taken whiskey shots at the bar. He’d drawn the line at getting on the dancefloor, but a part of him had wanted to. The men gyrating against one another under the strobe light looked so carefree, as if the outside world didn’t matter. For a few hours, they were themselves, joyful and loving creatures whose love for the man in their arms wasn’t scandalous or risky. Holden had never given over his inhibitions so fully, not even with a woman. 

As he predicted, Andrew’s funeral concludes without the appearance of any strange faces or cars. Senator Lindower had given them a list of everyone attending that they used to check against license plates and faces, but no one unusual stood out. 

“He could be a friend of the family.” Bill says, “We have no way of knowing.”

“I don’t think so.” Holden says, staring out the window as they make the drive back to the precinct. The sun is a bright, yellow ball in the cloudless sky, encouraging the slight headache gripping his temples. “Andrew is the outlier, not the killer. This guy isn’t someone circulating in the same social groups as a senator.”

“We can’t rule anything out.” 

Holden shifts a narrowed glance across the car at Bill’s profile. The undertone of tension between them has only increased since Holden pushed approval of his undercover plan past Ted. They’ve barely spoken about anything other than the case this morning. 

“It was a waste of time.” Holden says, “We should have spent this morning looking at those assault records and reviewing the audio from the club not fucking around with licence plates and mourning socialites.” 

“You didn’t get anything useful from the club.” Bill says, hand rising from the steering wheel in a frustrated jab. 

“It’s undercover work, Bill.” Holden says, tersely. “You have to assess the playing field, integrate yourself, make connections. It takes more than one day.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me on undercover procedure.” Bill says, sharply. “I was working drug busts from the inside out while you were still in middle school.”

The sound of the tires over the pavement drones above the stifling silence. 

Holden shunts his gaze back towards the landscape beyond the car as he struggles to tamp down his irritation. The lack of sleep last night isn’t helping, and they’re both fully expecting progress report calls from both Ted and the senator. In a stressful investigation like this one, they should be working together. 

The snick of Bill’s lighter brings Holden’s gaze back in his direction. 

Bill’s mouth sneers around his cigarette, anger rippling in the tension of his jawline. 

“What is your problem?” Holden asks, unable to quell the question that’s been plaguing him from the last several days. 

“Holden, I am tired. Just lay off.” Bill says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. 

“No. You have been acting strangely ever since we got here.” 

“I’m acting strangely?” Bill echoes, disbelief swelling in his voice. “Holden, you accused me of ogling Robert Sunder the second day we got here, and then signed yourself up for a risky undercover job that should have never been approved. And  _ I’m  _ the one acting strangely?” 

“Ted approved it. Are you questioning his authority in this case?” 

“Yeah, maybe I am. Because the only reason we’re down here is because he’s old pals with George Lindower, and he just wants to close this thing up so he can make a good impression with the senator.” 

“And he would put me at risk to do that?”

“You’re putting yourself at risk, but yeah.” Bill says, casting him a scathing gaze. “Ted is a bureaucrat, Holden. He’s not some benevolent father figure who’s supporting your career choices.” 

“Whoa, hold on.” Holden says, “Father figure?” 

Bill exhales a sigh through his nostrils, and passes a pointed glare between the road ahead and Holden. 

“That’s not … no.” Holden says, feeling his face growing hot. “I’m not- … I don’t have those issues. That’s-”

“Sure.” Bill says, rolling down the window forcefully to ash his cigarette. “Whatever you say.”

Holden sinks down in his seat. His stomach is turning, but he doesn’t know why. He has some idea, of course, but he’s spent so long putting his childhood behind him and forgetting about all the tiny microaggressions that had compiled until he finally left Milwaukee for good that those memories are almost like pictures in a faded storybook. Someone else’s life. Someone else’s issues. Him? He’s good, stable. He has a job he likes and is good at, his own apartment, his own life, a future, dreams. Everything he could possibly want. Almost everything. 

When they get back to the precinct and assemble in the conference room, Bill starts going over what they saw at the funeral with the rest of the task force. His voice is steady, unperturbed. He doesn’t spare a glance in Holden’s direction. 

~

Three days later, Jacob Sherman walks into the Golden Falcon with dark circles under his eyes that he quickly smothers with a glass of bourbon. He sits at the far left corner of the bar where there’s some privacy for the first ten minutes, collecting himself. Then he starts moving from group to group, chatting up the burly, bearded men playing poker before moving on to the pool tables where twinks in tiny shorts and belly shirts perch on the edge of the tables while meatheads size up the balls scattered across the green felt. 

Holden orders a cosmo from the bar, and carries it with him while he flits from one circle of men to the next. Nobody notices that he isn’t drinking it. The fact that he’s holding it and laughing easily is an illusion enough that the alcohol is getting to his brain. 

He introduces himself as a friend of Andrew’s. This tactic seems like the best way to get people talking about the murders, but most of the guys just offer a sad glance and an apology before moving on. 

A few hours later, Holden goes back to his seat at the bar. He knocks back the rest of the cosmo he’d been nursing, and rubs his eyes. He’s four days in, and he’s already exhausted from lack of sleep. The fact that he’d come off the case in California already sleep-deprived before diving into things here in Columbus does not cross his mind as an explanation. He’d expected more of himself. 

Holden glances up when a baritone voice with a smooth, Georgian accent cuts past the dull roar of the crowd and the thump of the music. 

Leaning against the bar is a man of average height with dark, wavy hair that comes down below his ears. He has a mustache, but the undone buttons at his collar expose a cleanly shaven chest. A few strands of gold necklaces glint against his tanned skin, but he’s otherwise not wearing any jewelry, no watches or rings. His shirt is a navy blue color, subdued but classy. Even from a distance, Holden can tell that his nails are groomed. 

“Two Manhattans, please.” He’s saying the bartender. “For me and my friend.” 

Holden tries not to stare as the man turns in his direction, giving Holden a good look at his face. Holden’s chest seizes. Though the sketch was so basic, this guy standing not three feet from him could almost be a perfect match. 

He starts to get up, trying to think of an approach on the fly, but another young man sashays up to the bar, looping his arm through the suspect’s. The two take their Manhattans and walk away, in the direction of the booth across the club. 

Holden pulls out his wallet to pay for his drink so that he can leave, but another man joins him at the bar. 

“What are you doing sitting here all by lonesome, baby?”

Holden’s head swivels to assess the stranger, a tall man with a salt and pepper crew-cut, beefy arms and tank top straining across his chest. He doesn’t look like everyone else at the club. He looks like a straight, ex-military, family man, but his cool perusal of Holden is more than interested.

“Who me?” Holden asks. 

“Yeah, you.” The man says as he waves over the bartender. “Rum and coke, please.” 

Holden peeks over the guy’s broad shoulder at his retreating suspect already getting lost in the crowd. 

“I, um … I’m not having much luck tonight.” Holden says. 

“What are you trying to score?” 

“Um, someone that doesn’t smell like pot, and isn’t wearing glitter.” 

The man chuckles, his mouth stretching into a smile that reveals dimples. “Does Rocky fit the bill?” 

“Rocky?” 

“Yeah, the cat who just left with Matty.” The guy says, nodding the direction the suspect had walked. 

“No, I … umm.” Holden stammers as the guy shifts closer, his gray eyes curiously assessing Holden beneath the colorful flash of the strobe light. “Do you know him?” 

“Yeah, but let me give you the down-low. That guy is a prick.” 

“Really? Why?” 

“He just is. Best you stick with me.” 

“And you are?” 

“Jud.” He says, muttering a thanks to the bartender as he swipes his rum and coke from the bar. “And you?” 

Holden almost forgets his cover story for a moment. Jud is touching his elbow absently, almost if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. 

“I, um … Jacob. It’s Jacob.” 

Jud takes a sip of his drink, and leans his elbow on the bar to fully face Holden. “You’re new around here.” 

“I just moved here. Did you know Andrew Lindower?” 

“The senator’s son. Sure. It was a pity what happened to him.”

“Yeah, we were kind of friends.” Holden says, “I met him at college.” 

“Harvard?” Jud asks, “So you’re a smart one?” 

“I guess you could say that.” 

“Let me guess.” Jud says, “You want to work for the DA’s office, be a prosecutor.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“No offense, Jake, but you look a little uptight.” Jud says, “Like you’ve got a stick up your ass.” 

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not trying to be mean.” Jud says, raising his hands. “But when’s the last time you had a good time?” 

Holden purses his mouth, trying to think of a good answer, one that fits his role. In the moment, with Jud’s hand on his arm and the smell of his cologne wafting across the small space between them, he can’t think of a lie. 

“I don’t know.” He says, finally. “I really am not sure.”

“See what I mean?” Jud says, taking another sip of his drink. “You want to dance?” 

“Dance?” Holden whispers, almost choking on the word. 

“Yeah.” Jud says, nodding at the crowded space where tightly packed bodies are swaying back and forth against one another. “I’ll teach you.” 

“I, um .. I’m not sure-” Holden stammers. 

He can slowly feel his control of the night slipping beyond his grasp as Jud grabs him by the wrist, and tugs him away from the bar. He’s supposed to be making light conversation and moving on, not getting carried away by some silver fox beefcake. His suspect is gone into the crowd, out of sight, and he had a boy in tow. He should leave. 

Jud pulls Holden around in front of him, planting both hands firmly on his hips. 

Holden braces his hands against Jud’s muscular chest. He’s sweating underneath the strobe lights, his heart pounding wildly. 

“Just move them like this.” Jud suggests, urging Holden’s hips into a circular motion. “It’s all about the grind, baby.” 

Holden flushes deep red as he lets his hips go loose under Jud’s guidance. 

“Lift your arms up.” Jud says, nodding at the other around them who are swaying and gyrating in the haze of cigarette smoke and strobe light. “Feel the music in your body.”

Holden raises his arms over his head. He feels more than awkward trying to dance to a song he doesn’t know with a stranger's hands on him, but there’s a sudden burst of relief in his chest, a surge of excitement and adrenaline like he’s discovered a brand new drug. 

Jud spins him around, and pushes up behind him. Both hands grasp Holden’s hips, then one climbs up his chest as their bodies rotate back and forth against one another, hips colliding softly at first then harder and harder. 

The time seems to pass in a blink. First one song, then two, then three. By the time Jud is pulling him off the dancefloor, Holden’s muscles are taxed and burning, and he’s sweating profusely, no longer out of embarrassment but out of exhilaration. 

Jud drags him out of the teeming mass of dancing bodies, into the darkened hallway leading to the bathrooms. A single lightbulb overhead casts jaundiced illumination across the dark, grimy walls. A few guys in the corner are doing coke off their knuckles, and the line for the bathroom is a lazy row of men melting against the wall in a drunken stupor. Otherwise, the hallway is secluded, the beat of the music just distant enough for Holden to hear the thudding of his heart and his rasping breaths. 

Jud pushes him up against the wall, hands all over Holden’s body. His shoulders are broader than Holden’s, ensuring Holden is trapped between his chest and the wall. He presses his forehead against Holden’s, his mouth curling in a dazed smile. 

“Now you’re getting relaxed, having fun.” Jud whispers, his voice breathless from dancing. 

Holden swallows hard, clutching at his chest. Awareness trickles across his subconscious, reminding him of where he is, what he’s doing, what he’s not supposed to be doing. 

“God, you’re sexy.” Jud says, cradling Holden’s cheek in his hand. “Can I kiss you?”

Holden stares up at him, thinking he should say no. His brain is screaming at him to say no, but his body has other ideas. His eyelids slip shut, smothering logical impulse. He lifts his chin and opens his mouth, silently offering. 

Jud’s mouth tastes like rum and cigarettes as it meets Holden’s. He smells like Old Spice, a hint of sweat, smoke. It’s only then that Holden’s brain catches up with him, realization scattering across his senses like showering fireworks falling towards the earth. He isn’t interested in Jud or anyone else here; only in who Jud reminds him of. 

Holden twists out of Jud’s embrace, and takes a few stumbling steps backwards, panting heavily. 

“What’s the matter?” Jud asks, his brow furling with confusion. 

“I have to go.” Holden whispers. 

He whirls around, and marches into the tide of dancing bodies. Fighting his way past the unaware men gyrating against one another, he emerges on the other side where the poker players gathered in the booths are paying little mind to him.

He darts across the club to the front door, and bursts outside. 

“You okay, buddy?” One of the bouncers asks as Holden stumbles up the first few steps before stopping to brace his hands on his knees. 

“Yeah, fine.” Holden says, “I just felt sick, that’s all.”

He leans against the cement wall for a moment before gathering himself. He has no idea how he’s going to explain what just happened to the task force, to Ted. God, to Bill. Rubbing his hands over his face, he draws in a deep breath, and trudges the rest of the way up the steps. 

As he crosses the street to the unmarked van, he sees the sliding door fly open. He nearly stops walking as Bill climbs out of the van. Even at a distance, Holden can see the rage on his face. 

Holden lowers his head, and keeps walking. As he reaches the sidewalk where the van is parked, he nods for Bill to follow him around the corner, and out of sight of the club. 

“What the fuck was that all about?” Bill demands, striding behind Holden with outstretched hands. 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. It was a mistake-”

“A mistake? I’ll fucking say!” 

Holden looks up to see Bill’s eyes spitting fire, his jaw clenched into a granite line. Suddenly, he can taste Jud’s mouth on him again, feel his strong chest under his hands, the smell of cigarettes and aftershave. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“What?” Bill demands. “You don’t have anything to say for yourself?”

Taft crosses the street from his unmarked sedan, his expression written with worry. 

“Holden, are you okay?” He asks, “What happened in there?”  
“I’ll tell you what happened.” Bill says, casting Holden a cutting glare. “Holden lost his fucking head. Didn’t you hear the audio?”

“Yes, I was giving Holden a chance to explain.”

Holden’s gaze drops to the sidewalk as heat rushes to his cheeks. Humiliated tears sting his eyes, but he presses his fingertips to his tear ducts. 

“Guys, I’m really sorry. I fucked up.”

“No shit.” Bill says, “You can’t get that close, Holden. I mean what the hell were you thinking? An STD might help you fit in better with the rest of the homos?” 

“Fuck you, Bill.” Holden snaps, anger filling his chest as his gaze darts up from the sidewalk. 

Bill seethes quietly, a muscle rippling in his jawline. At last, he shakes his head. “Who was that guy?” 

“I don’t know. I hadn’t seen him before.” Holden whispers, “He said his name was Jud.” 

Bill closes the space between them with a few strides, and lowers his voice. “He put his hands on you?” 

Holden’s throat tightens as he tries to meet Bill’s burning gaze. He gives a slight nod. 

“His mouth?” Bill’s voice is a hoarse whisper. 

Holden looks away, focusing on the distant streetlamps washing the narrow, pitted street in yellow. A faint breeze cools the sting in his eyes, but his mouth quivers uncontrollably. 

“Fucking Christ, Holden.” Bill says.

“I know.” Holden says, angrily pushing his knuckles against the corner of his eye to smother a building tear. “Trust me, I know it was a mistake.”

Taft clears his throat. “What about the Rocky guy that he mentioned?” 

Holden lowers his head. “Yeah, he uh … he looked like the sketch.” 

“Did you get a last name?” 

“No. But if I saw him again, I would definitely remember.” 

“We’ve got to sit on this for the rest of the night.” Taft says, “See if he comes out.”

Holden nods. ”We can try. He might already be gone. I lost track of him when … when I-” 

“I think you should go back to the hotel.” Bill says, “Get some rest.”

“No, I’m staying here. It’s my responsibility to finish out the rest of the surveillance with you guys.” 

Bill clutches Holden by the elbow, and leads him farther away from Taft. His grip is firm, and Holden doesn’t try to twist free. When they’re a few yards away, Bill lowers his voice to a firm, authoritative whisper. 

“Look, Holden, I don’t know what just happened in there, but whatever it was, you’re clearly not thinking straight. You’re exhausted, and you need to get some sleep and clear your head. You’re no good to us if you can’t focus.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Bill’s brow furrows, disbelief shining in his eyes. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Holden argues, wrenching his elbow out of Bill's grip. “It wasn’t like he assaulted me. He didn’t force me, Bill. I consented. I-”

He stops, averting his gaze when he sees the look in Bill’s eyes - disappointment, anger … jealousy?

“This is crazy.” Bill says, “I’m about to pull the plug on this whole thing.” 

“You can’t do that.” Holden says, swinging a panicked gaze back to him. “Ted approved it, he-”

“I don’t care what the hell Ted says.” Bill says, “I’m not going to sit here every night listening to you get pawed at by every fucking faggot meathead in that club. And for what? What have we gotten?” 

“A suspect. That Rocky guy. He looked just like the sketch.” 

“Great.” Bill says, “Well, I hope we can pin him down coming out of the club right now because after tonight, this is over.” 

“It’s not over.” Holden says as Bill turns to walk back towards the van. “Bill.” 

Bill pauses, his hands curling into fists at his sides. 

“You are not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.” 

Bill scoffs under his breath. 

“Fine. You don’t believe me.” Holden says, “We can let Ted decide.” 

It’s the only card Holden is holding. After Bill climbs back into the van and pulls the door shut, Holden realizes that playing it comes with a cost - Ted finding out what happened here tonight. 

Holden exhales a sigh into balmy night air, feeling the knot in the back of his throat swell. Maybe by the time this case is over, he’ll have lost the respect of everyone on this task force, Taft, and Ted. And Bill, the only person whose opinion of him Holden had ever cared about. 

~

Holden’s mind crawls laboriously from sleep the next morning as the alarm clock starts blaring an obnoxious, high-pitched beep. He shoves his hand out from underneath the covers to slap at the off button. The sound cuts off abruptly, and he rolls onto his back to blink dry, aching eyes at the popcorn ceiling. His throat is bone-dry, and his head is already pounding. 

Casting a dour glance at the clock, Holden gives himself a silent yet scathing pep talk. They’d spent another few hours watching the Falcon, but Rocky must have left the bar soon after Holden saw him with the boy. They hadn’t seen Rocky, nor his companion, Matty, emerge from the Falcon. Today, they’ll try to get the surveillance footage from Sunny, and track down Rocky’s full name, record, and address. There’s much to do, and little time to do it in. There’s no time for self-pity or exhausted wallowing. 

As Holden drags himself out of bed, the telephone on his nightstand starts ringing. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he grabs the receiver. 

“Hello?” 

“Good morning.” Wendy says, “How are you?”

“Oh, hi, Wendy.” Holden says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’m okay. How are you?”

“Doing well. I was just checking in.” She says, “And I’d like to give you the update from here if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“You first.” She says, “You sound tired. How are you holding up?”

“I’m not getting much sleep.” Holden says, “But I’m managing.” 

“Ted told me you’re doing undercover work.” 

“Yeah. We might have identified a viable suspect last night.” Holden says. Saying it that way sounds good, like progress. Not like he’d fucked up the entire sting last night. 

“That’s great.” Wendy says, “I’m trying to sort through the cases in your absence to identify the most urgent. We’ve got one from Portland PD, asking for our help. They have three homicides, all young boys.” 

Holden presses his eyes shut. “What’s the time frame?”

“The first one is from a year ago. The last two are within six months. They’ve all been discovered some time later, in the woods so there could be more.” 

“The acceleration between kills is worrisome.”

“That’s how I felt, too.”

“Okay.” Holden says, drawing in a deep breath. “Fax the information to the Columbus PD, and I’ll pick it up this morning.” 

“Holden, I’m not telling you this so that you can add something else to your current workload.” Wendy says, concern bleeding into her tone. “You asked me to keep you abreast of the requests so we can sort what’s most urgent.”

“And this is urgent.” Holden says, “The boys in Portland were sexually assaulted, weren’t they?”

There’s a pause before Wendy confirms with a muted, “Yes.”

“Three dead, two in the last six months. He isn’t going to stop.” Holden says, “They need our help. Send me the information, and I’ll work up a profile.”

Wendy is quiet from the other end for a long moment. 

“Wendy, I’m fine.” Holden says, pressing nonchalance into his tone. “I’ll get Bill to help me. We can probably crank it out in a couple days.”

“Okay.” She says, finally. “I’ll send everything over.” 

“Thanks.” Holden says, “I have to go. I’m supposed to be over to the precinct in half an hour.” 

“All right.”

“Bye, Wendy.”

“Holden?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Take care of yourself. Please.”

Holden bites his lower lip, staring down at the dull, gray carpet under his feet. The fine details begin to blur, but he quickly swallows back the lump in his throat. 

“I will.” He whispers. 

They hang up, and Holden sits on the edge of the bed, listening to the hollow silence of the room, his own pulse thudding in his temples. Then he gets up, gets dressed, and swallows down two Tylenol. 

By the time he gets to the precinct, the information from the Portland case is sitting on the fax machine waiting for him. He tucks the ream of papers in a folder, and heads into the conference room where the rest of the task force is waiting. 

Bill is smoking a cigarette as Holden pulls out the chair beside him. His gaze cuts past the haze of smoke, the intensity in his gray-blue eyes hovering somewhere between frustration and accusation. Holden avoids his gaze, too ashamed by the reminder of last night’s mistakes to consider gathering his ire. 

After Taft gets everyone on the task force up to speed, he announces that their top priority is to find this guy named Rocky. 

“It’s probably a nickname.” Bill says, “I’ll call Mr. Sunder to see if he knows his real name.”

“Good idea.” Taft says, “They check IDs at the door, so someone’s bound to know who he is.” 

“We can go back through the assault records, too.” Holden says, “He might be in there.” 

“I’ll set you up with Jones.” Taft says, nodding at the uniformed officer who had been working through the assault records. “He can show you the ones he’s narrowed down so far.” 

“What about tonight?” Holden asks, “He could go back to the club.” 

Silence settles over the conference room, humming tension gathering between Holden and Bill and radiating through the rest of the team members. Someone coughs quietly. 

“He’s right.” Taft says, casting Bill a pointed glance. 

“Let’s come back to that.” Bill says, “And focus on this Rocky guy for the moment.”

Before Holden can muster his own argument, the secretary knocks lightly on the door, and pokes her head inside. 

“Excuse me, Detective Taft.” 

“Yes?”

“The ME’s office just called.” She says, consulting her Post-It note. “They’ve found another body. Townsend Road, nine o’clock this morning. CSU is there processing the scene right now, and the body is going in for examination.” 

“Do they have an ID?” Holden asks, a sick feeling curling itself around the pit of his stomach. 

“Yes, they found a wallet with a driver’s license.” Anita says, frowning at the name on the Post-It. “A Matthew Greenwood.” 

Anita leaves the conference room. The entire task force is somber and silent. Holden glances over at Bill, feeling his chest clutching with despair. 

“Matthew.” He says, “Matty for short.” 


	6. a wolf among lambs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation pursues a viable lead, but Holden struggles with the fallout of what happened at the Falcon.

The stark white light positioned above the gurney casts Matthew Greenwood’s battered body in brutal illumination. Every cut, bruise, and scrape is on display, crusted blood gleaming like dried war paint on his ruined face. 

Bill and Holden stand on one side of the table while Taft and the coroner view the body from the other side. The coroner, Walt Monroe, had just finished detailing all of the horrible things that had been done to the young man, closing with the cause of death - five gunshot wounds to the chest. 

“Five.” Holden whispers, “He was probably dead after the first one.” 

“Most likely.” Walt says, “They’re tightly clumped over the heart so it’s difficult to tell which one came first.” 

“He’s more brutalized than Andrew was.” Bill says, “And he’s gone from one bullet to five. It’s definitely an escalation.” 

“Do you think he could be losing control?” Taft asks. 

“That’s what this body tells me.” Bill says, “Holden?” 

Holden tears his gaze away from Matty’s battered face, drawing in a hitched breath. He can’t help but remember the boy’s face from last night, how happy and carefree he’d seemed. No idea what was about to happen to him; but Holden had an idea, and he’d let Matty walk out of the club with the suspect. 

“This scene does suggest more rage.” Holden says, taking a step back from the gurney. “And if so, then something has changed in his life. We profiled that this is a practiced, smart guy. Like Kemper and BTK, he plans out his kills and practices utmost control despite the amount of rage he has. There must be some kind of secondary stressor.” 

“What if it’s us?” Bill asks, “Maybe he realizes that we’re closing in on him.” 

“Then why keep taking victims from the Falcon?” Taft asks, “Why not move farther away or just stop altogether to avoid detection?” 

“I don’t know.” Bill says, “But it’s to our benefit. We have a face and a name now.” 

“Thanks to Holden.” Taft says. 

Holden glances up from Matty’s body. A few days ago, he would have been latching onto Taft’s approval, and throwing it in Bill’s face. Right now, standing over a tragedy he could have prevented, he feels his stomach burn with nausea. 

“Well, I wasn’t much help to him, was I?” Holden says, nodding down at Matty. 

Bill and Taft hesitate to reply, and Holden turns to march out of the morgue. As he emerges from the chilly atmosphere, the summer heat in the hallway urges the hot, wet tears building in his eyes and the dull pressure of a headache pounding in his temples. Rushing down the hallway, he locates the bathroom at the end of the hall, and shoulders his way inside. 

Staggering to the sink, he leans over the faded, plastic countertop to glimpse the flush plastered over sallow pallor and the tears gleaming in his red-rimmed eyes. He breathes hard, trying to push down the swelling panic and despair, but his lungs rebel with a choked sob. He bows over the sink, watching as a single teardrop slides down his nose and drops to the porcelain sink. 

The bathroom doors creaks open behind him. 

Holden sniffs, hurriedly swiping at his eyes with his sleeve. Bracing his trembling hands against the counter, he peeks in the mirror to meet Bill’s gaze. 

“I told Taft to go on ahead of us back to the station.” Bill says. 

Holden nods, pressing his eyes shut against stinging tears. He feels another tear break free and travel hotly down his cheek, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away. 

“You want to tell me what this is all about?” Bill asks, taking a few steps closer to him. His eyes are gentle and unaccusing in the water-stained reflection of the mirror, any lingering animosity eclipsed by genuine concern. 

“I saw him leave the club last night.” Holden says, “With our suspect. I was going to follow them, but then that guy … Jud, he approached me.” 

Bill’s head lowers, his jaw clenching. 

Holden nods, feeling the pressure against his eyelids compound. “I let him distract me. I could have excused myself, and followed them. Instead, I …”

“You can’t blame yourself.” Bill says, “You had no way of knowing at the time if Rocky was really the unsub, or if he was just some guy who kind of resembled a really shitty sketch.” 

“But now we know.” Holden says, his voice choked. “I could have done something, Bill. I could have saved him. I could-”

“But, you didn’t.” 

Holden squeezes his eyes shut, and lets his head drop. 

“You didn’t.” Bill repeats, his voice softening. “And you can’t change that now. All we can do is take the information we have, and use it to track this bastard down. You’re going to drive yourself crazy with should have’s and would have’s.” 

Holden presses his fingertips to his tear ducts, stemming the slick heat swimming against his eyelids. 

“There’s a guy out in Portland right now, killing little boys.” He whispers, his voice faltering. 

“What?” 

“Wendy called this morning. It’s our most urgent request. A pedophile and a killer. He’s dumping little boys out in the woods.” 

“Holden-”

“And we’re here, because Ted is old friends with a senator.” Holden says, frustration reaching past the tears to harden his voice. He turns around to cast Bill a searching gaze. “I’m not saying those kids’ lives are more important than the men dying here, but how are we helping? We’ve given them the profile, and a strategy to catch the guy. I’m not supposed to be in the field, doing undercover work. I’m supposed to look at these scenes from the outside, and help them narrow the suspect list. I mean, what are we doing here, Bill? There’s other people dying right now, other people we could be helping. What are we doing? What are we …” 

His voice trails off as a fresh wave of tears rises to swallow him. He sags against the sink, his chest seizing with a choked whimper. The tears gush down his cheeks, spilling past his clenched eyelids, past his crumbling defenses. 

Bill leans in to catch him, one hand braced against Holden’s heaving ribs, the other cradling the back of his neck. 

Collapsing against him, Holden buries his face into the solid warmth of Bill’s chest. His choked sobs are smothered in the front of Bill’s jacket, his tears absorbing through the fabric until he can feel the wet patch growing beneath his cheek. He wraps his fingers around the lapel of the jacket, squeezing his fist until his knuckles ache, but he can’t force the emotions back down into the neat, compartmentalized boxes he’d had them all relegated to. 

Bill’s fingers wind gently through his hair, holding Holden securely to his chest. He doesn’t say anything, or try to soothe Holden’s tears. He just holds on, and doesn’t let go while Holden’s hiccuped, gasping sobs seep past his chest to echo against the hollow cement walls and cold steel stalls of the bathroom. 

Holden pushes his forehead against Bill’s chest as the tears begin to subside. He can feel Bill’s lungs swelling beneath the pressure, the steady drum of his heartbeat, all of him so solid and unbreakable. Whatever disagreements had arisen between them in the past week and a half, Holden can’t remember them, or cling onto his frustration. Bill had been right the way he usually is, and now he’s here picking up the pieces. 

Holden doesn’t want to uncurl from the warm, strong cocoon of his arms though he knows he has to. He wallows just a minute longer before swallowing back the nausea crowding in his throat. 

As he leans back, his gaze focused on the floor, Bill quietly pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, and offers it to him. 

Holden dabs his cheeks with the cloth, steadying his breathing with deep inhales. 

“Okay.” Bill says, his tone low yet steady. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go back to the precinct. I’m going to put a call in to Sunder, and see if he knows this guy - and if he doesn’t, he’s going to get in contact with the bouncers and any club regulars who do know him. We’re going to get a name, and we’re going to haul his ass in. We’re going to end this.” 

Holden nods, sniffing quietly. 

“Look at me.” 

Holden slowly lifts his head, flinching as Bill’s gaze lands on his flushed, damp cheeks and puffy eyes. 

“We’re gonna get this guy, and go home.” Bill says, “Got it?” 

Holden nods, hardly trusting his voice to speak. 

“Wash your face.” Bill says, motioning to the sink. “We need to get back.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’ll wait outside.” 

Holden leans against the sink as Bill slips out of the bathroom. In the silence, a faucet drips, and Holden’s head rushes with enraged sinuses and a sharp-edged headache. 

He washes his face in the sink, and wipes it dry with a paper towel. Tossing the wadded towels into the trash can, he stares down his flushed reflection. His nose is stuffy from crying, his eyes still red-rimmed and watery. When he dabs the corners of his eyes and his nose with Bill’s handkerchief, it smells of cigarettes and Old Spice. 

~

On the drive back to the precinct, Holden tells Bill in more detail about the Portland case and the three dead boys. Bill agrees to help Holden put together a preliminary profile later on. 

Holden has regained his composure, but his cheeks are still faintly flushed and his eyes bloodshot from crying. Bill’s concern comes in equal measure with his relief that Holden is at last questioning the validity of the undercover operation at the Falcon. The last thing he wants to do is play the audio from that night for Ted just to prove a point, but he places Holden’s safety above his self-esteem; and if the breakdown in the bathroom proved anything, it’s that Holden isn’t mentally or emotionally stable enough to be spending every night on his own in a strange, risky environment. 

Bill doesn’t try to point it out to Holden, certain he already knows. They’re both focused on tracking down Rocky, and putting this case to bed. 

Once they get back to the station, Holden sits down with Officer Jones to look at assault records while Bill ducks into one of the offices for privacy to call Sunny. He sits at the desk with the telephone in his hand for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 

He and Sunny haven’t spoken since that day he’d come to the precinct to offer his compliance in the investigation. While they smoked on the sidewalk, Sunny had asked him again not to destroy the Falcon’s integrity. A personal request, a plea. 

“I can’t promise you that.” Bill had said, “Maybe Holden and Taft will, but I’ll give you the respect of being honest. If a club regular is the unsub, I can’t change the tide of public opinion.” 

Sunny had nodded, his eyes glistening in the morning sunlight. 

“I appreciate that.” He’d said, “I wish you had been here last year when Marshal died. Everything might have been different.” 

“I’m sorry it took a senator’s golden boy dying to get me here.” 

Sunny had smiled sadly. “They were all golden boys to me.” 

He had touched Bill’s elbow, and walked away leaving Bill with a drowning sense of despair and regret. He’d hoped to be calling Sunny the next time with better news, but instead, he’s picking up the phone to drop yet another devastating truth on him, one they’d both expected yet resisted - the unsub has been under their noses all along, a wolf among lambs, preying on the innocent, broken souls that look to the Falcon for hope. And not only that, but also another golden boy is dead at his hands. 

Bill presses his fingertips to his forehead, and inhales a slow, steadying breath. He dials, and presses the phone to his ear. 

“Hello?” Sunny picks up after just two rings. 

“Hi, Sunny. It’s Bill.” 

“Oh, hi. What’s going on?” 

“I have some news.” Bill says, “Good and bad.” 

“I see.” Sunny says, softly. “Bad first?”

“Okay. There’s been another murder.” Bill says, plunging ahead without hesitation for fear that another second-thought might trap the words in his throat. “Last night. A kid named Matthew Greenwood.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence from the other end of the line. Bill can hear Sunny draw in a shaky breath. 

“You know him?” Bill asks. 

“I, um … yes.” Sunny says, his voice mottled with swelling emotion. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t ask if he suffered. I know he did.” Sunny says, “But he didn’t deserve it. He was a good, sweet boy.” 

Bill nods, adjusting his grip on the receiver. He wishes for a moment that he could forget their history just to make this conversation easier. Despite the passage of thirty years, the choked pain in Sunny’s voice clutches him in the chest, shaking violently at his ribcage. 

“No one deserves it.” Bill says, at last. “But, we’re one step closer to catching him.” 

“How so?” 

“Do you know a club regular named Rocky?” Bill asks, “White guy, average height, dark hair, mustache. He would keep to himself, and-”

“Rocky?” Sunny interrupts, his tone flat and stunned. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, “Holden saw him with Matthew last night, but we don’t have his full name.” 

“My God.” Sunny says, “Bill, I … I had completely forgotten about him.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He used to come every night.” Sunny says, “He would always sit in the corner by himself, but he loved the twinks - you know, the young, pretty ones who-”  
“I know what you mean.” Bill interrupts, “What happened to him?”

“He was temporarily banned because he broke a bottle over a kid’s head in the bathroom.” 

“Jesus. You didn’t call the police?” 

Sunny scoffs, “We can’t call the police, Bill. We deal with these things in-house. That way only the perpetrator gets punished, and not any innocent bystanders.” 

“Right.” Bill says, clearing his throat. “When was this?” 

“Now that I think of it, this was right after Marshal died.” Sunny says, horror swelling his voice. “Oh my god, we let him back in. I didn’t even make the connection at the time, I just-”

“Sunny, this isn’t your fault.” Bill says, “You had no way of knowing.” 

Sunny sniffs from the other end of the line, and lets out a weary sigh. “I don’t bartend every night the way I used to, but I do keep strict tabs on the Falcon. I should have banned him for life.” 

“How long is a temporary ban?” 

“Depends. His must have been six months.” 

“It would make sense. The only victim we haven’t directly tied to the club was Arthur, the one right after Marshal.” 

“I don’t believe it.” Sunny whispers, “He was under our noses the whole time.” 

“Do you know his name? His full name?” 

“Rocky is a nickname.” Sunny says, “I believe his real name is James, um … Miller or Mason. No, it’s Mellinger. James Mellinger.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” Sunny says, “A man attacks one of my boys, I remember his name.” 

“Good.” Bill says, “That’s really helpful. We’re going to try to track him down.” 

“Thank you.” Sunny says, then hesitates a moment before gently asking, “Bill?” 

“Yeah?” 

“How’s your partner? It’s Holden, right?” 

“Yeah. He’s fine. Why?” 

“I just told you, I keep tabs on the club. One of the bouncers told me he came running out of there like a bat out of hell yesterday.” 

Bill closes his eyes, and clenches his jaw against a sigh. “Yeah, he um …” 

“Oh.” Sunny says, flatly. “I’m sure it must be scary for him, being surrounded by all of us homosexuals.” 

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” 

“No.” Bill says, firmly. “If anything, Holden cares too much. I’m about to pull the plug on the whole operation.” 

There’s a dense pause. Bill can almost hear the conclusions turning inside Sunny’s brain. 

He clears his throat. “Look, I have to go.” 

“Okay. Keep me updated?” 

“Yeah, of course. Thanks, Sunny.” 

Bill hangs up the phone, and leans back in the chair. The unfamiliar walls of the office stare back at him, the bland paint and framed commendations accusatory. Sunny and the past keep on creeping closer and closer to the center, past the walls of this precinct, past the defenses and masks he’s cloaked himself in to forget what they once had.

And he feels seen, even from across the distance of a telephone line, all his sins and self-imposed responsibilities laid bare. Can Sunny glimpse the way Bill is trying to carry this investigation, but most of all Holden, on his shoulders, the way that knee-jerk reaction to protect his partner is ingrained down into his bones? Maybe he can see that it means something more. Bill hadn’t allowed himself to think so until Holden was breaking down in his arms. 

~

James Mellinger fits almost every aspect of their profile. He’s currently employed at a call center, but he’s had a string of jobs that range anywhere from fry cook to desk jockey at a pharmaceutical company. Up until a year and a half ago, he lived with his mother who died of breast cancer. He’s an only child, the product of a broken home. The father disappeared off the map years ago after a series of domestic violence calls by his mother. He graduated high school and spent a year in the military before being discharged. He’d gone berserk on a drill sergeant. Since then, his life had been one disaster after the next. A string of girlfriends, domestic assault calls, bar fights, lost jobs, and finally two years ago, a public indecency rap. 

“The first stressor.” Holden says as he scans the arrest report. “He’s accused of homosexuality, and pays a substantial fine. Then, his mother dies.” 

“His support system collapses.” Bill says, “I’m sure she wasn’t thrilled to learn her son was gay. The relationship was probably already strained, and then she passes away, exacerbating his conflicted feelings of love and anger.” 

“He’s been leading up to this for years.” Holden says, “I’m amazed the only thing he’s gotten out of all his numerous run-ins with the police is a fine.” 

“All of the girlfriends dropped the charges.” Bill says, shaking his head. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there were male rape victims.” Holden says, “You don’t go from clocking a long-term, female partner in the cheek a couple of times to brutally torturing and murdering casual, male acquaintances.” 

“You know those never got reported.” 

They both glance up from the files when Taft marches back into the conference room, a grim yet victorious smile on his mouth. 

“We got the warrant.” Taft says, “We won’t be placing him under arrest, but we will be able to search his apartment and vehicle.” 

“Let’s hope we find something then.” Holden says, “If he knows we’re onto him, he’s going to disappear.” 

“You think he’ll talk to us?” Taft asks. 

“He’s a narcissist. He won’t be able to resist.” 

“Maybe we can get him talking, make him slip up.” 

“I agree.” Holden says, “But, I’d really like to get a look at his place. I think I should go with the team for the warrant, and you and Bill should stay here and interview Mellinger.” 

“You don’t want to get in a room with this guy?” Bill asks, casting Holden a curious frown. 

“If this doesn’t pan out-”

“What do you mean, if it doesn’t pan out?” 

Holden’s glassy eyes are faintly fearful as they reach Bill’s. “ _ If  _ the search warrant doesn’t pan out, I don’t want to blow my cover at the club.” 

“Holden, we talked about this-”

“No, you did.” Holden says, rising from his chair, and gathering up his case file. “Take it up with Ted if you want, but it’s our best option if there’s nothing in the apartment.” 

“We’ve got him dead to rights.” 

“Great. Then you have nothing to worry about.” 

Holden breezes past Taft on his way out of the conference room. Taft watches him go before slowly turning back to meet Bill’s bewildered gaze. 

“Is he okay?” Taft asks. 

“He’s fine.” Bill grumbles, “He’s just bullheaded, that’s all.” 

“I hate to say it, but I do agree with him. As much as I want to call this a victory right now, I know better than to count my chickens before they hatch.” 

“Yeah.” Bill mutters, digging his cigarettes out of his pocket. 

He takes a drag, searching for the hit of nicotine that might soothe his frayed nerves. As much as he hates to admit it, Taft and Holden are right; but he can’t think about that night at the Falcon, when he’d been forced to sit inside the surveillance van listening to some stranger put his hands all over Holden, without feeling a fiery burst of anger in his chest. He doesn’t know if he could take one more night of listening in, but having absolutely no power over what happens inside the club. 

“Come on.” Bill says, gathering up his case files and nodding for Taft to follow him. “Let’s get this over with.”

~

Mellinger comes down to the station without resistance. Bill and Taft watch from the other side of the glass while one of the uniformed officers gets him settled in the interview room and offers him a cup of coffee. 

“What’s the strategy?” Taft asks. 

Bill regards Mellinger’s relaxed demeanor and curious gaze roaming around the interview room. 

“Let him wait.” Bill says, “We need to wait and see what happens with the apartment and vehicle search. It’s best to have all of the information we can before we confront him.” 

“Won’t that upset him?” Taft asks, “What if he doesn’t want to talk to us after sitting around for an hour or two?”

“He’ll talk.” Bill says, “He’s a narcissist. He believes in his own mythology.” 

“If you say so.” Taft says. 

He leans his elbows on the windowsill of the one-way glass, watching Mellinger with the same curiosity as a person measuring up a big cat in a zoo enclosure. Mellinger is already prowling like one too, getting up out of his chair to pace the cramped length of the room. 

“It always amazes me how normal they look.” Taft says. “I know what he’s done, but I’m still having trouble imagining him doing it.” 

“Yeah, he’s as human as you and me.” Bill says, “And he’s finally made a mistake.” 

Half an hour later, Holden calls from a payphone near Mellinger’s apartment. Bill takes the call at Taft’s desk. 

“Hey, Holden. Tell me you’ve got something.” 

Holden’s sigh rustles across the line. “Bill, I think he’s onto us.” 

“What do you mean?” Bill asks, his grip on the phone tightening. 

“There’s not much here.” Holden says, “In fact, it looks like his car has recently been cleaned and detailed, and the apartment is in pristine condition. There’s still vacuum lines on the carpet.” 

“Jesus.” Bill whispers, sinking down into the chair with dread building in his chest.

“We’ve torn this place apart.” Holden continues, “Pulled open all the cabinets, drawers, closets, everything. There’s no weapons or tools, no videotape equipement, no trophies. We’ve got some bondage and gay porn mags and a small stash of weed. That’s about it.” 

“What the fuck.” Bill says, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “This can’t be right.” 

“I know.” Holden says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Have you spoken to him?”

“No, we were waiting on the warrants. I was hoping to have some information to press him with.” 

“There’s only one thing that’s interesting.” Holden says. 

“What’s that?” 

“We found a bottle of Azidothymidine in the medicine cabinet.”

“What’s that?” 

“It’s also known as AZT. It’s an antiretroviral drug that treats AIDS.” 

Bill pauses with his hand braced over his mouth. His heart is sinking fast, his hopes of closing up this investigation quickly going right down with it. 

“Bill?” 

“Yeah, I’m still here.” Bill says, “You know what this means, right?” 

“Yeah.” Holden says, “He’s dying. He doesn’t have anything left to live for - other than this.” 

“Fuck.” Bill says. 

~

Bill gathers up all the circumstantial evidence they have on Mellinger before he and Taft head into the interview room. His confidence in the conversation is waning considerably since Holden called, but their only advantage is Mellinger’s own hubris. Bill can only pray that the bastard slips up. 

“Sorry for your wait, Mr. Mellinger.” Bill says, “My name is Special Agent Bill Tench; I work with the FBI, and this is my colleague, Detective Ambrose Taft. He's the lead on this case.”

Mellinger nods, his gaze roaming back and forth between them. 

“You’ve been read your rights?” Bill asks, pulling out the chair across from Mellinger, and taking a seat. 

“Yeah.” 

“Offered your right to an attorney?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t need one.” Mellinger says. “Innocent people don’t need lawyers.” 

Bill catches Taft’s sullen sideways glance, but focuses his attention on Mellinger. 

“Then you won’t have a problem giving us a little information about your whereabouts for the past few months.” Bill says, “Particularly on June 6th and October 14th of last year, and March 12th and July 9th of this year.” 

Mellinger doesn’t blink. “I’ll try. That’s been a long time ago now.” 

“It’s important you try to remember. It would really help us eliminate you as a suspect if you have an alibi.”

“I thought they said I wasn’t under arrest.”

“You’re not. We’re talking to everyone who had interactions with the victims.”

“Okay, well … I’ll try.”

“Great. We can start with an easy one: July 9th.” Bill says, flipping open his case file to pull out the screen shot from the surveillance footage and the sketch Jason had provided. 

He slides both images across the table to Mellinger, and watches the minute shift in Mellinger’s expression. There’s just the slightest frown on Mellinger’s brow that’s quickly smothered with a crooked smile. 

“Is that supposed to be me?” He asks, pointing at the sketch. 

“Could be.” Bill says, “A friend of Andrew Lindower’s saw him leave with someone who looks an awful lot like that the night he died.”

“You mean Jason Veruhous?” 

“You know him?” 

“Yeah, I know him.” Mellinger says, crossing his arms over his chest. “He's a bottom feeder drug addict. That’s why he was hanging out with Andrew - because he had money to buy him drugs.” 

“He paints a different picture.” Taft says. 

“I bet he does.” 

“So, you’re saying you didn’t see Andrew at the club that night?” Bill asks, tapping his finger on the image from the surveillance camera. 

“Yeah, I was there that night.” Mellinger says, “Andrew said he had some good stuff, but he wouldn’t bring it into the club. So we went out to his car.” 

“He sold you drugs?” 

“No.” Mellinger says, tersely, casting Bill a narrowed gaze. “He didn’t have anything I liked so we went our separate ways.” 

“Is there anyone who can confirm that?” Taft asks. 

“Confirm a drug deal?” Mellinger asks, chuckling. “I don’t think so. Unless dead men tell tales to the FBI these days.” 

“Okay, let’s go to last night, then.” Bill says. “Matthew Greenwood.” 

He shuffles through the folder to locate the newly printed photographs from the crime scene. He pulls out the close-up of Matthew’s face, and slaps it down in front of Mellinger. 

“We have an eye witness who saw you and Matthew together at the club last night.” Bill says, “Less than twelve hours later, he ends up like this.” 

There’s a pregnant pause as Mellinger stares down at the photograph. There’s no horror or disbelief. Only a spark of recognition and satisfaction that Bill could never translate to a jury. He’s seen it many times - first in the eyes of Ed Kemper and many more times in other killers over the years. It’s not a look he can describe or quantify, not an emotion but a visceral, biological response to witnessing and for a second, reliving what they’d done to the victim. 

Finally, Mellinger draws in a slow breath. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Did he try to sell you drugs, too?” Bill asks. 

“Uh, no.” Mellinger says, tearing his gaze away from the photo. “He wanted me to sell him drugs. When he realized I didn’t have any, he left to go find someone else.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah, ask anyone at that club.” Mellinger says. “I left the club around twelve-thirty that night, and he was still there chatting it up with anyone who was willing to sell.” 

Bill feels Taft’s anxious gaze on his temple, but maintains a reserved, calm gaze on Mellinger. 

Going back to the folder, he extracts the photographs of the first three killings. He lays them out in a row in front of Mellinger. 

“Marshal Hanes - June 6th, 1982. Arthur Richards - October 14th, 1982. Benjamin Harkness - March 12th of this year. You’re telling me you met and danced with all of these men at the Falcon, but never took any of them home? When  _ is  _ the last time you convinced someone you were worth hooking up with?” 

Mellinger’s nostrils flare. “Marshal. I might have hooked up with him.” 

“Might have?” 

“And Benjamin.” Mellinger says, “He was an Army guy, thought he was straight. But he let me suck him off, so I guess not.” 

“Did you tell him that you have AIDs? Or were you going to let him figure it for himself in a year or two?”

Silence engulfs the interview room. Mellinger’s cheeks are flushed with silent rage, his jaw clenching against a hasty retort. 

Bill holds his glare, unflinching. 

Finally, Mellinger swallows back his anger, and musters a strained smile. He leans forward, bracing his elbows against the table. 

“There’s something about those Army boys.” He says, his voice low and raspy. “The twinks fall all over them, and so do some of the bears. Must be the muscles, the discipline. To me, it’s just the challenge. Every single one of them thinks they’re only a little gay, just curious, but not really. Right up until their dick is in some other guy's mouth.” 

The temperature in the interview room seems to go humid and suffocating, as if someone turned off the AC and blocked off every point of ventilation. Bill feels his heart begin to kick in his chest, a quiet vein of panic that he’d spent years smothering beginning to rise up to the surface. His logic tells him that Mellinger can’t possibly know anything about his past, but the man’s cold, blue eyes are so steady and confident that the idea is almost plausible. 

“I doubt he caught AIDs from me.” Mellinger continues, a faint smile tipping his mouth. “All he did was let me suck him off. It takes more than one hook-up for an Army boy to let you fuck him.” 

Bill scrapes together his composure, leaning back in his chair to put a little more distance between him and Mellinger. 

“Well, I guess we’ll never know since he’s dead.” Bill says. 

Mellinger holds Bill’s gaze for another moment before scraping a hand through his hair, and scoffing. “This is getting old. I’ve been here all morning. Why don’t you just give me a polygraph, and I’ll be on my way.” 

“Really?” Taft asks, “You’re  _ offering  _ to take a polygraph?” 

“Yeah.” Mellinger says. “Last year was a long time ago. I don’t remember exactly where I was or what I was doing, but I know what I  _ wasn’t  _ doing.” 

“I see.” 

Bill gets up from his chair, and gathers the photographs back into his folder. “Taft, can I speak to you outside for a moment?” 

“Of course.” 

Mellinger slouches in his chair, an irritated smirk set on his mouth as Bill and Taft leave the interview room. Outside, the air conditioning in the hallway has kicked on, sending a relieving blast of cool air down the back of Bill’s clammy neck. 

“Polygraph is a bad idea.” Bill says the moment the door is shut behind them. 

“He’s offering.” 

“I don’t care.” Bill says, “If it comes back negative or inconclusive we can kiss a conviction goodbye. We don’t have any hard evidence on this smug prick.” 

“If you’re so sure that he’s guilty then the polygraph could help.” 

“I’m telling you, I’ve been through this before.” 

“So, he’s cocky.” Taft says, waving an exasperated hand at the one way glass. “He’s not a god, Bill. We’ll make sure the questions are worded correctly, get a good baseline, and bag this son of a bitch.” 

Bill sighs, and glares down at his shoes. The day, which had begun on a high note, is starting to crash and burn, and they haven’t even had lunch yet. He wants nothing more than to go home.

“Okay.” Bill says, “I can’t bar you from giving him a polygraph, but it’s my professional opinion that it could hurt us more than it could help us.” 

Taft scrapes a hand through hair, and leans against the windowsill. “I don’t know what else to do. Lindower and Morris are breathing down my neck. If I let this guy go without one, and either of them find out, it’s going to be my ass on the line.” 

Bill nods. “You gotta do what you gotta do. I get that.” 

Taft casts Bill and apologetic gaze. “I’ll let Morris know where we’re at, and get it set up. Let’s hope to God this works.” 

As he walks away, Bill pulls out his cigarettes with anxiously trembling fingers, and lights up. Leaning against the window frame, he peers past the glass as Mellinger’s calm disposition. He isn’t a praying man, but he says a quiet prayer now to God or whatever higher power might be listening. He can’t escape the sense that they’re courting disaster. 


	7. fathers and sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the investigation stalls into a waiting game, one late night exposes tender secrets, both old and new.

Cigarette ash builds on the floor at Bill’s feet as he and Holden wait in the hallway outside the closed door of the interview room. Beyond the one way glass, they can see Mellinger trussed up in the polygraph gear, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he calmly answers each question. 

“He’s a narcissist.” Holden says, “If he beats the polygraph, this isn’t going to end well for us.” 

“I know, and I tried to tell Taft.” Bill says, “But Mellinger offered, and he’s got Lindower and Morris up his ass. I can’t really say that I blame him.” 

They fall silent again. Bill blows smoke rings into the empty air. 

Holden’s shoes scuff against the tile as he shifts his weight back against the wall.

Bill glances at him out of the corner of his eye, catching a glimpse of Holden’s bloodshot, morose eyes just before they slip shut. His cheeks are pale, and there’s a hint of day-old stubble shadowing his jawline. It’s like the breakdown in the bathroom had never been over but only suppressed, and suddenly Bill can’t think about anything else but Holden’s weight against his chest. The thought is followed closely by the realization that they’ll still have to talk about the undercover operation at the Falcon if Mellinger beats the polygraph. 

Bill swallows hard, and focuses his gaze on the floor. The idea of sending Holden back into the club is akin to feeding him to the wolves in his mind. 

“There has to be a secondary location.” Holden whispers. 

“What?” 

“Where he takes them.” Holden says, bringing Bill’s gaze back to him. “You should have seen that apartment, Bill. It was small, cramped even. There’s barely enough room for one person to live let alone the privacy to torture and kill young, healthy men.” 

“You think that’s why we didn’t find anything?” 

“Maybe he was onto us before, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he’s just that meticulous about keeping his apartment clean, and he has somewhere else that he takes them. Somewhere separate so that it doesn’t stain his pristine appearances.” 

“Could be.” Bill says, taking a drag of his cigarette. “We’ll have to look into it. I don’t think he owns any property.” 

“This area is rundown, lots of abandoned, empty lots.” Holden says, “His hiding place might not be on paper.” 

“That’ll make it even more difficult to find.” 

Taft slips out of the interview room to join them in the hallway. He paces in front of the window, his hands braced on his hips. 

“How did it go?” Bill asks. 

“I’m not sure. He seems confident enough in his answers. They’re analyzing it now.” 

“Great.” Bill mutters. 

“We need to think about contingencies.” Holden says, “If it comes back negative or inconclusive, what’s our next steps?” 

“I would love to follow this asshole’s every move.” Taft says, “Sit on him until he reveals himself, but I don’t know if I can convince Morris to give me the manpower I’d need for an operation like that. He’s all about ‘directing our resources in the most viable directions’.” 

“Isn’t that the kind of half-assed thinking that got us here in the first place?” Holden asks, frustration brewing in his voice. “They had enough manpower last year to sit on the Falcon, and try to drum up indecency raps.” 

“Trust me, I’m just as frustrated as you are.” Taft says. 

The door of the interview room swings open again, and the officer who had administered the polygraph steps out into the hallway. Even before he opens his mouth, Bill reads the grim expression on his face. 

“Well, what is it?” Taft asks. 

“Negative.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Bill mutters. “He’s not God, Ambrose. But he thinks he is now.” 

“Fuck.” Taft curses, taking off his glasses to rub vehemently at his eyes.

“He’s asking if he can go home now.” The officer adds, quietly. 

Taft waves a hand, “Yeah, give him his stuff and get him out of here.” 

The officer goes back into the room, and the door slams shut behind him, echoing down the length of the empty hall. The three of them stand in silence, sharing dejected gazes. 

“Come on.” Holden says, finally. “Let’s get back to the conference room, and start coming up with a plan.” 

As they head back across the bullpen, agitated voices from across the room bring their attention to Senator Lindower facing down two of their detectives from the task force. 

“Where is he?” The senator is demanding, “I want to see the bastard who took my son from me.” 

“Shit.” Bill says, “Who let him in here?” 

“Who told him we had someone in custody?” Holden adds. 

“I don’t know. Let’s just get him out of here.” 

“I’ll talk to him.” Taft says. 

He starts across the room towards Lindower just as the two uniformed officers escorting Mellinger lead him into the bullpen. Lindower’s gaze sweeps past the two detectives barricading him to glimpse Mellinger swaggering towards him, a lopsided smirk fixed on his mouth. 

“Hey, is that him?” Lindower asks, his voice lowering in disbelief for half a second. It’s quick to rise back to a shout as realization floods his eyes. “Are you letting him go? Why the fuck are you letting him go?” 

Taft rushes across the room, and shoulders past the two detectives to put a hand on Lindower’s arm. 

“Sir, if you’ll just come with me, I can give you an update on your son’s case.” 

“Is that the bastard?” Lindower demands, his glazed, wide eyes bouncing between Mellinger and Taft. “Tell me right fucking now.” 

“Yes, he was a person of interest, but he passed a polygraph.” Taft says, maintaining an even tone despite Lindower’s rage. 

Lindower lets out a ragged breath as his mouth slips open in disbelief. “Are you shitting me?” 

“Sir, please-”

“Get me in a room with him. We won’t need any fucking polygraph once I’m done with him.” 

“Senator Lindower.” Taft says, his voice rising sternly above Lindower’s. “I need you to calm down.” 

The man takes a shuffled step backwards, shocked by Taft’s authoritative tone. 

Bill quickly rushes past them to pull the door leading out into the lobby open. He waves the two uniformed officers and Mellinger past him before Lindower can work up the nerve to physically assault him. 

Mellinger meets Bill’s gaze as he ambles past him. His eyes are glacial blue, regarding Bill with a brazen confidence and victorious smugness that makes his blood boil. He lets the door swing shut on Mellinger’s heels, cutting off the idea of helping Lindower make good on his threat. 

As the door slams shut behind Mellinger, stifled silence settles over the bullpen. Every detective in the precinct is focused on the stalemate between Taft and the senator. The only sound is the shrill ring of a telephone left ignored. 

“Come with us to the conference room.” Taft says, his voice dropping back to its usual, reserved level. “I can get you a cup of coffee, or tea, or whatever you like, and we can talk this over.” 

Lindower lifts his chin and draws in a deep breath. He gives a clipped nod. 

“This way.” Taft says, nodding for Lindower to follow him. 

Bill and Holden exchange tense glances as they follow them towards the conference room. Nausea rises irrepressibly in Bill’s stomach. The stakes have never been higher, and yet they’re left with almost nothing. Only the look in Mellinger’s eyes, and the realization that the most dangerous man they could face is one who has nothing left to lose. 

~

Taft spends an hour talking Lindower down. In the end, the senator regains his composure enough to be of some real help. He gets Ted on the phone in Morris’s office, and convinces the chief of the merits of putting surveillance on Mellinger. They’re granted four officers to pair up on rotating shifts to watch Mellinger along with the continued undercover operation at the club. 

Once Lindower leaves the precinct, Bill, Holden, and Taft retire back to the conference room. 

“So, we still have the club surveillance.” Holden says. 

“Why do we need it if we’re watching his every move?” Taft asks. 

“He’s sick, not desperate.” Holden says, “And killing is the only thing in his life that he enjoys right now. He doesn’t want to spend his final months in prison.” 

“You think he’ll go underground?” 

“He’s smart.” Holden says, “Have you ever been ice fishing, Detective Taft?” 

“I’m from San Diego.” Taft says. “No.” 

“My father really enjoyed fishing.” Holden says, “Especially ice fishing. It was the only kind of trip he ever took me on. One of my earlier memories is of sitting on the ice, complaining I was cold, and that we were never going to catch anything. He turned to me and said, ‘Oh, we’ll catch something. Just wait and see.’ And I said, ‘Dad, how? It’s too cold.’ Then he explained to me that you have to think of ice fishing as a carefully planned, tactical assault. The fish don’t want to get out and chase after bait when it’s cold enough to freeze your balls off, so you have to put something in front of their noses that they really, really want. Something they can’t resist. You have to know your prey, only then can you convince them to show themselves.” 

Taft rubs a hand over his forehead, and scowls. “Let me get this straight. You want to continue the club surveillance because you want to use yourself as bait?” 

“It’s our only recourse.” Holden says, “If we don’t take advantage of the club, he’s going to disappear. He knows we’re watching him, and he’s going to be careful. We have to give him something that he can’t resist.” 

“How do you propose you do that?” 

“We watch him, like you said. We see when he goes to the club, and then I go in. I approach him. I make it impossible for him to say no. Then, when he gets me to his secondary location and reveals himself, we can make an air-tight arrest that will guarantee conviction.” 

“Wait a second. Secondary location?” 

“Yes, I believe he has a secondary location, somewhere more private that he takes the victims so he can do what he does to them in privacy. The apartment was too small. You can’t sneeze in there without your neighbors hearing it through the walls.” 

Taft lets out a slow sigh, and turns to regard Bill with an uncertain gaze. 

“Bill, are you on board with this? It seems very risky.” 

Holden casts Bill a firm glance, but Bill doesn’t need Holden to convince him of the truth of what he’s saying. 

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this.” Bill says, shaking his head. “But Holden’s right.” 

“Seriously?” Taft asks. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, putting up his hands. “Look, I saw the look in Mellinger’s eyes as he was leaving. He knows he has us over a barrel. He’s going to be cockier than ever because he thinks he’s getting away with this.” 

“We have to take advantage of his hubris.” Holden says, “I’m confident he’s our guy.” 

“So am I.” Bill says. 

“Okay, then.” Taft says, rising to his feet. “I need some coffee, and then we can talk details.” 

Taft leaves the conference room, and silence settles between Bill and Holden. Bill reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. His nerves are itching. 

“Bill-” Holden begins, softly. 

“Don’t.” Bill says, cutting him a glance through a billowing cloud of smoke. “Don’t tell me you’ll be careful, or you won’t get hurt. You could. This is dangerous. You’re trying to get yourself alone with a violent psychopath who has brutally murdered five innocent men. Don’t fucking tell me he won’t hesitate with you.” 

Holden’s wide blue eyes cling to Bill’s. He gives a slight nod. “I know. But you’ll be there, right?”

Bill sighs, scowling at the sunlight stretching past the blinds as he takes a hard drag of his cigarette. 

“You said you wouldn’t spend another night in that van listening to me getting pawed at by-”

“I know what I said.” 

“So … will you?” 

Bill taps ashes forcefully at the tray in the middle of the table, and meets Holden’s tentative, hopeful gaze. 

“Of course.” He says, his voice a raspy whisper. “I’m going to be the first one breaking down his goddamn door if he lays a finger on you.”

Holden’s mouth tugs with a gently quivering smile. “Good. I wouldn’t want to go into the club again if I didn’t know you would be there.” 

Bill struggles to return a reassuring gaze. He doesn’t know whether he wants to kick Holden’s ass for suggesting a plan this dangerous, or if he wants to hold him close before the threat arrives. He only knows he doesn’t want to dream what would happen if Mellinger ever did manage to hurt him. 

~

Bill and Holden spend the next several days living largely nocturnally. While the uniformed officers spend most of the daylight hours watching Mellinger, Bill and Holden join the crew at night, waiting for the opportunity to strike when Mellinger goes back to the Falcon. 

The rest of the hours of the investigation are spent trying to gather witness statements and interviewing the family of the latest victim, Matthew Greenwood. While club surveillance shows Mellinger and Greenwood leaving separately the night of the murder and Greenwood’s family admits to his drug use, possibly corroborating Mellinger’s story, Bill’s belief in his guilt isn’t shaken. The profile is too accurate. And Bill has sat across from enough multiple murderers to know that hollow look, like that of a black hole, behind his eyes. 

For the most part, Mellinger keeps a low profile. His days consist of waking early, going to work, stopping in at the gym, getting dinner, and heading home. Sometimes he goes out to the grocery store, or meets friends for dinner or drinks. True to what Holden and Bill had predicted, he stays away from the Golden Falcon during these initial days of surveillance, but they both assure the task force that he’ll be drawn back to his hunting ground sooner rather than later.

Five days later, Bill and Holden head back to the hotel at almost two o’clock in the morning. They’d been sitting in the van since ten-thirty, but Bill is past the point of exhaustion. He can never quite get himself to unwind right away after the long hours of surveillance, and though he wakes every morning exhausted down into his bones, by the time they reach the small hours of the morning he’s restless and alert. 

“You want a nightcap?” He asks Holden as they climb out of the van at the curb of the hotel. 

“Sure.” Holden says, “We can work on the Portland profile some more.” 

“It’s pretty late.” 

“I’m not tired. Are you?” 

“Not really. I haven’t been sleeping much.” 

“Yeah, me either.” Holden agrees as they shoulder their way past the rotating door into the hotel lobby. 

The hotel is nearly deserted at the late hour. Their footfalls echo across the tiled atrium on their way to the elevators, joined only by the muted classical musical playing from the speakers. 

“My room or yours?” Holden asks. 

“Mine has the whiskey in the minifridge.”

“Yours it is.” 

“Okay, meet you up there in twenty?” 

“Sounds good.” Holden says. 

They ride the elevator up to their floor, and go separate ways to their rooms. Bill gets a quick shower, and changes into sweatpants and a clean undershirt. He pours two glasses of the Jameson he has stashed in the minifridge, and pulls the Portland case file out onto the coffee table. 

Holden knocks on the door five minutes later, and Bill lets him in. He plops down on the sofa, and motions for Holden to take the other glass of whiskey. 

“Thanks.” Holden says, taking a sip of his drink. He sits down beside Bill, and exhales a weary sigh. 

Bill discreetly studies his profile. Holden’s hair is damp from the shower, his skin smelling of vanilla and spice. Telling dark circles under his eyes compete against a rosy flush from the hot water. He’s been quiet these past few days on surveillance, and Bill can’t help but think the lack of communication is his fault - for never once telling Holden the truth during the past week, and for losing his cool that night at the Golden Falcon. 

“You good?” Bill asks.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this case.” Holden says, leaning forward to open the folder on Portland. 

“And?” 

“Something has been bothering me.” Holden says, extracting a photograph from one of the crime scenes. “The staging of the bodies.” 

“The fetal position.” Bill notes, taking a sip of his whiskey. 

“Yeah.” Holden says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to peer down at the photo. 

The boy had been left in the woods. He had been sexually assaulted, but he was dressed in his pajamas. Whoever killed him had laid him on his side, knees drawn up, arms curled to the chest. In one case, the kid had been cradling his favorite stuffed animal, which had later been identified by his mother. 

“It’s almost … caring.” Holden says, running his fingertips over the details of the picture. “As if he’s being tucked into bed.”

“What does that tell us?” 

“These kills are planned, meticulous.” Holden says, “The boys are all around the same age with similar features. Blond hair, blue eyes, slight. They’re not random or abductions of opportunity. He plans them out until every detail is perfect.” 

“Most pedophiles operate based on opportunity.” Bill says, “A lot of them aren’t skilled enough to stalk and abducate such a low risk victim. This guy is.” 

“He has to be. These kids represent someone to him.” Holden says, “His own child.”

“You think?” 

“He’s a father. Someone who is trying desperately not to harm his own flesh and blood.” 

“Makes sense.” Bill says, “He dresses the boys once he’s done assaulting them. He cleans the bodies, lays them to rest the way he tucks his own son into bed every night.” 

“Jesus.” Holden whispers. “Could you imagine fantasizing of molesting your own child? His guilt must be overwhelming.” 

“It probably happens more frequently than you think.” Bill says, tipping back the last of his whiskey. “Most child abuse cases don’t get prosecuted, much less reported. The trauma is so terrible that no one wants to talk about it when they get older - especially boys.” 

Holden glances over his shoulder at Bill, his eyes soft in the dim light of the room. “But it’s not just sexual assault, is it? The physical abuse some kids deal with is just as bad, and sometimes it creates people like Mellinger.” 

“Yeah,” Bill says, grabbing his cigarettes from the coffee table, and snapping his lighter open, “Sometimes it’s the best thing that could have happened when a father disappears out of his kid’s life.” 

Holden turns his gaze back to the photograph. There’s a beat of dense silence before he whispers, “Is that what happened with your father?” 

Bill’s chest seizes at the carefully worded question, shocked that Holden is asking him so directly. Whatever discussions they’ve had about their childhoods have always been shrouded behind layers of suggestion and unperturbed affect. No distinct details or brutal honesty. And after the past few days, Bill hadn’t expected Holden to address him so openly. 

“Sorry.” Holden says after several moments of silence pass. “You don’t have to answer that.”

Bill leans forward to pour himself another glass of whiskey. He takes a sip, and the burn of alcohol seems to numb the clutch of panic. 

“He left when I was around ten. Came and went a couple more times after that before disappearing for good when I was about fourteen.” He says, quietly. “So yeah, I guess you could say it was for the best.” 

Holden casts him a tentative glance, glimmering with curiosity. “You were glad when he left?”

Bill pauses, taking another stiff drink of whiskey. He doesn’t know why, but he feels compelled to tell Holden the truth - this truth, even if he can’t be honest about other details of his past. 

He clears his throat, and says, “The, uh … the first time he left, I cried for days. I was just a kid. He left in the middle of the night, and didn’t leave a note or anything. I kept imagining something terrible happening to him.” 

Holden is quiet, waiting for the rest of the story to unravel. 

“It took me a little while, maybe a year or so, I don’t really remember.” Bill continues, the words fighting past the painful fist knotting in his chest. “I started to realize what life without him was like. Up until then, I had myself convinced that every other kid’s dad was just like him. A strict disciplinarian, a heavy drinker, sometimes got too physical. Then, I realized I wasn’t going home every single day afraid of what kind of mood he was going to be in, or whether or not he was drunk, or if I was going to get my hide tanned over something inconsequential or some kind of lip he thought I was giving him. I realized other kids didn’t have to hide bruises, or make up stories about black eyes. It wasn’t normal.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Holden whispers, “God, Bill, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

Bill takes a bolstering drink of his whiskey, but the burn of alcohol can’t dislodge the lump in his throat. He keeps his gaze focused on his lap, not wanting to meet Holden’s gaze which is bearing down on the side of his face. 

He presses on, “By the time he came back around, I had already realized what a bastard he was. I was a little older, bigger. I was prepared to fight him if it came down to that, but he came back remorseful. It’s one of the only times I can remember him being sober for more than a day. Of course, by then, I didn’t care. I didn’t need him anymore, and I told him as much. He left again not much time later. He was never sober again after that, and sometimes I wonder if … if I had forgiven him, then maybe- … Shit, I don’t know. Maybe it’s wrong, but I’d rather be selfish.” 

Heavy silence follows as Bill stops talking, his throat knotting as the memories unwind from their hidden, dark spaces in the back of his mind. The concealment had begun long ago, right around the time he figured out his father was no father, and had continued from there, every feeling shoved down and contained, smothered and silenced. It almost hurts to let it fly free from his ribcage, but the flinch is followed by a breathless release, a great weight lifting from deep inside.

“I’m sorry.” Holden whispers. 

Bill glances up to see Holden looking at him with gentle compassion gleaming in his eyes. 

“It’s …. You know, it was a long time ago.” Bill says, managing a cavalier tone. 

“Pain like that … it just doesn’t go away.”

“It does get easier. He’s been gone for awhile, and I don’t think about him much these days.” 

Holden nods, his teeth pricking at the corner of his bottom lip. 

They sit quietly for a moment, and Bill can’t stand Holden feeling sorry for him. He’s never let anyone know about his father because he doesn’t want pity. He pulled himself up out of his childhood by his bootstraps; that strong, unshakeable image of himself is what he prefers people to see.

“Was that true what you said about your dad?” Bill asks, eager to put his own honesty behind him. “The whole ice fishing thing?”

“Yes.” Holden says, leaning back against the cushions. “He was pretty distant, you know. Cold. Not very affectionate. But I can’t really complain the way you can. He never hit me or anything.” 

Bill frowns as Holden’s eyes lower, the dark fringe of his eyelashes shielding some glimmering, subdued pain. 

“Do you still talk to him?” Bill asks. 

“Some. He doesn’t approve of a lot of my life choices … Never has.” 

“Oh.” 

“The only time he ever paid me much mind was to complain about my choices, actually.” 

“A kid doesn’t have a lot of choices.” 

“Well, when I was really young, he mostly ignored me. His work was most important to him, and I was always underfoot, a nuisance.” Holden says, “Then, when I got a little older, getting a mind of my own, he always had something to complain about whether it was my friends, which sport I decided to play or not play, my grades, how I dressed, I how looked-”

“What do you mean how you looked?” 

Holden shrugs, his gaze focused hazily on the bottom of his whiskey glass. “He had a lot of definitions of how a man should look. He thought I acted and dressed too … preppy.” 

“Preppy?” Bill echoes. 

“You know … like a faggot.” 

He leans forward suddenly, grabbing the whiskey bottle from the center of the coffee table to refill his glass. 

Bill watches him silently with a slow, crushing weight beginning to settle on his breastbone. The shame reflected in Holden’s voice glistens like a still lake, it’s waters reserved yet going deep, down into dark, hidden things. Things that Bill has wrestled with in the shadows for as long as he can remember. 

“Well,” Bill says, clearing his throat, “Maybe he didn’t hit you, but his behavior clearly had a negative impact.”

“No. I mean, it’s fine. Really.” Holden says, hastily. “It’s not like I  _ am _ , you know.”

Bill chews the inside of his lower lip. Maybe if he wasn’t so tired and had less whiskey in his belly, he could have conjured a reassurance. A pat on the back.  _ Of course you’re not, Holden. I would never think that. _

__ Instead, he says nothing, and Holden casts him an almost desperate gaze. 

“That isn’t why I let him touch me.” He says, his voice rushed yet choked. “The other night at the club - that Jud guy.” 

Bill frowns, trying to think of something to say. Holden looks on the verge of tears again. 

“It wasn’t because I wanted him to, or I was curious or …” Holden continues, the words trailing off before he draws in a deep breath. “I just … froze.” 

“Yeah, that’s … that’s understandable.” 

Holden nods, blinking rapidly as a flush crawls up his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to let it happen.” 

“I know.” 

Holden swallows hard, his gaze falling to his lap. His shoulder hitch with a staggered breath. “Do you?” 

A shaft of guilt pierces Bill’s chest. He presses sincerity into his voice, “Yeah. Of course.” 

Holden nods, his teeth scraping at his lower lip as he focuses on the whiskey glass cradled loosely in his lap. 

“I’m going to have to do it again.” He whispers, “With Mellinger.” 

“For the case. So we can stop him.” 

“Right.” Holden says, tersely. “I have to do it.”

“Now wait a second.” Bill says, setting aside his whiskey glass to grasp Holden’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything. We all know you’re putting yourself at risk. We can find another way.” 

“No, we can’t.” Holden says, his misty gaze rising from his lap to clutch Bill’s. “If there was another way, I would have suggested it. I wouldn’t have willingly signed up to try to seduce a sadistic psychopath. I’m not backing out.” 

“We shouldn’t have any reservations going into this.” 

Holden nods, drawing in a shuddering breath. “I know. And I don’t. It’s the best plan that we have, I’m just …”

Bill swallows hard as Holden’s voice dwindles. Holden glances away pressing his knuckles to his mouth. 

“Just what?” Bill asks. 

Holden’s eyes squeeze shut, easing a scarce tear free against his eyelashes. “Bill, please don’t tell Taft or anyone else, but … I’m scared. I never wanted to be anything my father said about me.”

“You aren’t.” Bill says, firmly. “You’re doing this for the right reasons.” 

Holden leans closer to him, and Bill slides his palm across Holden’s back, rubbing in a slow, calming circle. He can feel Holden trembling beneath his touch, his lungs expanding with small, strangled inhales. 

The silence is deafening for a long moment before Holden turns, and slowly curls into Bill’s chest. 

Bill’s mind races with alarm that tells him to put some space between them, but Holden’s weight is leaning heavily into him, pushing them back against the cradle of the sofa cushions. Despite the mild panic gripping his chest, his arms wind instinctively around Holden’s shoulders. 

Holden’s crying is subdued this time, barely the twitch of his shoulders to indicate that he’s breaking down at all. He presses his face into Bill’s chest, effectively muffling whatever sounds might have emerged from beyond his clamped jaw. 

Bill smooths one hand up Holden’s back, and cards his fingers gently through the hair at his nape. Lowering his head, he can smell the damp cleanness of Holden’s hair, the muted yet warm scent of aftershave. The urge to kiss Holden’s temple translates into action before he can reconsider the consequences. 

Holden shudders against him, drawing in a low, gasping breath as Bill’s mouth stamps gently against the tender border of his hairline. Clutching at Bill’s chest, he digs his nails into the thin fabric of his undershirt, and drags himself closer, until he’s nearly crawling into Bill’s lap. 

Bill rubs his palm down Holden’s back, absorbing the overwrought shudders and trying desperately to soothe them. His other fingers are tangled up in Holden’s hair, holding on just as tightly as Holden is clinging to him. There’s a brief flash of logic behind his squeezed eyelids, telling him to pull away, but he’s already found his undoing in the soft skin of Holden’s temple under his lips. 

Cradling Holden’s cheek, Bill guides his face up into the gradual rain of warm kisses tumbling down from his temple. Holden’s mouth comes up from the muzzle of his chest, inhaling a scraped whimper. He nudges his cheek against Bill’s mouth, and Bill kisses away the scarce, lingering dampness of tears. When he reaches Holden’s jaw, he pulls back just far enough so that their foreheads are pressed together.

Hot, exhilarated breaths cloud the scarce space between them, expelling both quivering intent and repressed longing. Holden stares back at Bill with wide eyes, tears gleaming like gemstones against the wrinkled corners, but the terror is eclipsed by a silent, powerful yearning.

Two things infiltrate the muted panic in the back of Bill’s mind in this moment. One, that Holden is quite possibly the softest, kindest, most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Two, that he wants to kiss him - that he’s wanted to for some time, that he’s been ignoring the urge for years, and finally, that he can’t stop himself now. 

Holden’s gaze is still hesitant, questioning Bill’s intentions, when he leans in to press his mouth to Holden’s. Their lips meet in a trembling, tentative stroke, both of them hesitating to commit entirely, but lost beyond the point of no return. The taste of Holden’s mouth is enough, even if it’s just the graze of his trembling lower lip, to make Bill succumb to the heady grip of need.

Bill clutches Holden’s cheek tighter as he goes in for another kiss, this one deeper, leaving second thoughts in the dust. His mouth grazes across the length of Holden’s, a slick tumble of lips and keening breath. He parts his lips as the taste of Holden’s pliant mouth galvanizes his desires, urging the quaking passion humming beneath his tongue. He kisses first the soft upper lip and then the bottom, drawing the plump flesh into his mouth and biting gently until Holden opens to him. 

Holden gasps quietly as his lips slip apart against the searching caress. Bill can feel the heat from inside his mouth, his breaths surging against Bill’s in exhilarated gusts. The inner seam of his lower lip is velvet soft and slick, tasting of sweet saliva and the tang of whiskey, and Bill smooths his tongue across it, garnering a strangled whimper from Holden’s throat. 

Holden drags his feet up from the carpet, and stretches his leg across Bill’s thighs. He slowly mounts Bill’s lap while his mouth urges down against the deepening kiss, opening wider to accept the stroke of Bill’s lips and tongue, his own tongue applying tentative pressure. Settling down on his lap, he wraps both arms around Bill’s neck, and groans hungrily into the kiss. 

Bill clutches at Holden’s arched, trembling back, at first only holding him close; but his grasp begins to move as Holden rocks against him, moaning his acceptance of Bill’s hands on his body, his tongue inside his mouth and begging for more. He feels his way down Holden’s squirming spine until his fingers encounter the hem of his t-shirt.

Both of them pause for a moment when Bill’s fingertips graze the bare skin at the border of the shirt and the waistline of his trousers, but the hesitation lasts only seconds. Bill delves past the barrier and spreads his palms over the swell of Holden’s backside. His grip tightens as Holden trembles and pushes back into his palms, encouraging the possessive touch. Digging his fingers into the ample flesh beneath his trousers, he pulls Holden firmly against him. 

Holden gasps into his mouth, and the kiss goes all sloppy and heated, lost in a daze of compounding needs and undeveloped urges crawling at last into the light. 

Bill’s logic drifts beyond reach, muffled by a longing he’s been ignoring for too long. The hot, cocooned perfection of the moment seems impenetrable until he feels the hard bulge of Holden’s erection grinding down against his own throbbing groin.

The heated, desperate passion of the kiss comes to an abrupt halt. 

Bill tears his mouth away from Holden’s, panting breathlessly. His head is swimming, his blood pounding, panic racing icily against the heat flooding his belly. He grasps Holden by the shoulders to push him back, leveraging just enough space between them so that Holden’s cock isn’t nestled against his own. 

“Fuck.” Bill rasps, squeezing his eyes shut against the scorching heat crawling up his throat and cheeks. 

Holden breathes heavily above him, both trembling hands still tangled up in the front of Bill’s undershirt. 

Bill slowly opens his eyes to see Holden straddling his lap, his mouth all swollen and damp from the force of the kiss. His eyes, wide and glassy in the semi-darkness of the room, stare at Bill with a mix of shock and desire. 

Neither of them move for several breathless moments until Holden’s tongue darts across his lower lip, and he leans in to search for another kiss. 

Bill tightens his grip on his arms, forcing them apart. 

“Holden, stop.” He says, his voice hoarse and wrecked with need. “Stop. What are we doing?” 

Holden closes his eyes, a frown creasing his brow. “I don’t know. I just … I-”

“Come on. Get off.” Bill interrupts, grasping Holden by the hips to urge him toward the sofa cushions.

Holden tumbles off his lap, and sinks to the sofa with his hands clasped over his face. 

Bill jumps to his feet and paces away. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to quell the lingering tang and burn of Holden’s mouth. His whole body is shaking, rife with adrenaline, arousal, and panic, and he can’t get his blood to cool no matter how focused he is on stemming the erection twitching in his sweatpants.

They’re both quiet for a long moment before Bill scrapes his thoughts into order. He has to say something, to try to explain what he’s just done. He turns slowly to peek at Holden who is crouched on the edge of the couch, his hand braced over his mouth. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” Bill says, “I’m sorry.” 

Holden glances up at him, his gaze belying skepticism. 

“It was my fault.” Bill adds, bracing his hands against his hips. “You’re exhausted. Stressed, sleep-deprived. I shouldn’t have taken that as something else. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of-”

“You didn’t take advantage of me.” Holden says, his voice suddenly defiant despite his shock. “I consented. I wanted it. I-”

Bill’s gaze darts away from Holden’s as the admission cuts off, and lingers in the air like suffocating smoke.  _ I wanted it.  _

“We’re both tired.” Bill says, finally. “We should try to get some sleep before tomorrow.”

Holden nods. Without argument, he begins to gather up the scattered pictures of the Portland file. 

“I’ll write this up in the morning and get it back to Wendy.” He says, flipping the folder shut. 

“Okay.” Bill whispers. 

Holden climbs to his feet, and stands still for a moment, staring at the carpet. When his eyes reach up to find Bill’s, the panic inside them has melted down into something closer to disappointment. 

“Goodnight.” He says.

“Goodnight.” 

Holden shuffles across the room, and slips out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Bill in the humming silence. 

He marches back the coffee table, and snatches the bottle of whiskey. Pouring himself a shot, he tosses it back hard. The hit of alcohol burns down his throat and into his belly where desire still simmers, unquelled by his horror. When he looks at the couch cushions, he can almost see the impression of their desperate bodies clasped against one another, and the beginning of another carefully constructed lie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up!!! Let me know your thoughts! 💙


	8. ice fishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden's undercover operation at the Falcon comes to fruition.

As Holden had predicted, Mellinger can’t stay away from his hunting ground for long. Two days after he and Bill’s encounter in the hotel room, their round-the-clock surveillance catches Mellinger driving from his apartment to the Golden Falcon around ten o’clock at night. 

“Looks like this is it.” Bill says, grimly, as the officer driving the van parks them around the corner from the bar. 

Mellinger is descending down the basement steps, his head tilted down to avoid the security camera. Holden watches him disappear inside, a bolt of nausea tying his stomach in knots. 

“Okay.” He says, forcing the tremble out of his voice. “Where’s the wire?”

“Right here.” Bill says, grabbing the listening device from the other cables and equipment crowded on the table. 

Holden draws in a deep breath, and unbuttons the front of his shirt. 

Bill drags his chair closer, his gaze focused on attaching the battery pack under Holden’s belt. 

Holden slips the shirt away from his shoulders, and his skin prickles with goosebumps against the air and the graze of Bill’s fingertips against his belly. Letting out a steadying breath, he peeks down at Bill’s hands taping the wire to his bare skin. 

They haven’t mentioned what happened two nights ago. In fact, Bill has been acting perfectly normal and professional. If Holden didn’t know any better, he would assume that Bill had blacked out, and doesn’t remember a single thing about the kiss. But he knows that isn’t true, and now he’s wondering how Bill got so good at hiding his emotions. 

Holden, on the other hand, can’t hide the affect the kiss had on him. He’d been anxious and scared, afraid of his own burgeoning desires and the realization that he might be more like those men in the Golden Falcon than he ever thought; but his misgivings had melted the moment Bill’s mouth touched his. It didn’t feel wrong or nauseating the way kissing Jud had. It felt like a glimpse into freedom, a slice of real desire he’d never experienced before. Nobody has ever kissed him with that amount of desperate need and passion. It took the air straight from his lungs, and it feels like he hasn’t been able to catch his breath ever since. 

“Okay.” Bill says, clearing his throat and bringing Holden back to reality. He plasters the last piece of tape against Holden’s chest. “Stick to the plan. Get him out of there as quickly as you can, and back to the secondary location. As soon as you see proof or if you think your life is in danger, use the code word.” 

“Right. Jackpot.” 

Bill nods. “Don’t let him rattle you. We’re going to be right there.”

“I know.” Holden says, buttoning his shirt over the wire. 

“Good.” Bill says, leaning back. “Be careful.”

Bill grabs the walkie-talkie to order the rest of the team to be on alert as Holden pulls the side door of the van open. He climbs out onto the sidewalk, and pushes the door shut behind him. 

The summer air is damp with humidity as he crosses the street towards the Falcon. He’s faintly sweating already by the time he reaches the basement stairwell. His heart is pounding, his ears rushing with panicked blood, and he tells himself to stay calm and keep a level head. If he’s lucky, it will all be over by tonight. 

Holden descends into the Falcon, and is quickly ushered past the two bouncers who have come to recognize his face. Beyond the front door of the club, the air is dense with cigarette smoke and the smell of sweat and alcohol. Music thumps from the speakers, nearly drowning out the sound of his heartbeat kicking like a bass drum in his chest. 

Gathering his composure, Holden walks to the bar, and orders a drink. As the bartender mixes his drink, he scans the crowd of bodies illuminated in blinding flashes of strobe lights. For a moment, he can’t find Mellinger’s face among the crowd, but as his gaze circles back around towards the end of the bar, he sees him sitting there in the corner alone. 

Holden mutters his thanks to the bartender as the man slides the martini over to him. Taking a bolstering sip of the drink, Holden wanders down the bar to the secluded section in the corner where Mellinger is holding a beer limply between his fingers. 

“Mind if I sit here?” Holden asks, raising his voice above the throbbing level of the music. 

Mellinger’s guarded eyes critically measure Holden up. He’s on the defensive. Usually he’s the one approaching someone else. 

“Sure.” He says, finally. 

Holden sits down on the bar stool beside him, and stirs his martini with the olive-laden pin. “I’m Jake. What’s your name?” 

“Rocky.” Mellinger says, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Holden takes a sip of his drink, feeling Mellinger’s gaze burning into the side of his face. 

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” Mellinger asks, turning on the bar stool to peruse Holden from head-to-toe. “I know pretty much everyone that comes here, but I don’t know you.”

“I just moved here recently from Milwaukee.”

“Milwaukee.” Mellinger echoes, curiously. “Makes sense.”

“Why’s that?”

“Midwestern boys always have that soft and pale look about them. Pretty, too.”

Holden's face flushes hot, and he forces a shy smile to his mouth. “Is that so?”

“Mm. What are you doing down here in Georgia?”

“I have an internship. I’m studying law at Harvard.” 

“So, you’re a city mouse after all. I pegged you for more of a farm boy.”

“I’m trying to break out of the stereotype.”

Mellinger chuckles, his mouth breaking out into a smile. He has a dimple on his left cheek, and his teeth are pure white and straight. Holden can see how all of the victims fell prey to this easy-talking loner with movie-star good looks, and for a moment, he has to remind himself of what Mellinger is capable of. 

“So, law.” Mellinger says, “Seems a little ironic considering what you’re doing right now.”

“Thomas Jefferson said that if a law is unjust, it’s our right - our duty - as citizens to break it.” 

Mellinger’s head tilts to one side. “Did he?”

“Yes. Don’t you agree with him?”

“Yeah. I didn’t peg you as the rebellious type either.”

Holden takes a sip of his martini, and casts Mellinger a coy glance. “Well, I’m not really.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t usually do this. Back home, I never …”

“Hooked up?” Mellinger finishes, taking a confident swig of his beer. 

“Well, that’s a little presumptuous.” Holden says, “I meant that I never went to establishments such as this one in Milwaukee.”

“So, you’re not going to hook up with me?” Mellinger asks, blase self-confidence skirting past Holden’s attempt at playing hard-to-get.

Holden blushes harder, inadvertently dropping his gaze to his lap. “No, I … uh-”

Mellinger leans closer, putting his arm across the back of Holden’s stool. His hand brushes lazily along Holden’s tricep, inciting a tingling wave of shivers. 

“It’s okay, darling.” Mellinger says, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You don’t have to make a show of clutching your pearls around me. I know what I want, and I take it. And if you don’t know what you want yet, I can show you.”

Holden peeks up from the bottom of his martini, allowing himself to tremble. Jake, all fresh and oblivious from Wisconsin, would be shuddering in desire, and perhaps a little bit of the fear that Holden is actually feeling. Mellinger likes that. He likes his victims helpless and compliant like lambs to the slaughter. 

Mellinger’s eyes are pale blue beneath the white flash of the strobe light. He slides his palm up Holden’s back to gently gasp his neck. 

“You’re scared?” Mellinger asks, softly. 

Holden purses his lips, and nods. 

“Have you ever done it before?”

“Done what?”

“Slept with a man?”

Holden draws in a hitched, trying to think of what Jake would say, what experiences he’s had. The right answer to close the noose around Mellinger’s neck. 

“I, um … not exactly.” He whispers. “I had a room mate one semester in college that I messed around with.”

Mellinger nods, his eyes taking on an intrigued, glassy quality. He likes the idea of deflowering a virgin. 

“It was mostly just, you know … jerking each other off.” Holden whispers, his face growing hot as he adds details to the illicit lie. “One time I … I sucked him off.”

“I bet you’re good at that.” Mellinger murmurs, reaching up to touch Holden’s lower lip with his thumb. “You’ve got pretty lips.”

Holden’s eyes press shut instinctively as Mellinger leans in. His thumb drags across Holden’s trembling lip, gently prying his mouth open. Holden barely breathes, expecting Mellinger to brazenly kiss him, but the forceful touch retreats abruptly. 

“Can I buy you another drink?” Mellinger asks. 

Holden opens his eyes, and draws in a ragged breath. His heartbeat is percussive in his ears, flushing his body with adrenaline. He can feel it kicking in, humming through his blood, making his hands sweat. He can only pray that Mellinger is reading it as virginal inexperience rather than abject terror. 

Mellinger waves down the bartender, and asks for another martini. He nurses his beer while they wait, his posture relaxed and in control. Holden wonders if he knows the police are following him, if he isn’t afraid, or if he just doesn’t care. He's behaving like a man without any worries. 

“You seem like you know what you’re doing.” Holden says, focusing his thoughts on the profile and Mellinger’s ego. 

“You could say that.”

“I hope I’m not coming off as a complete idiot to you.” Holden says, “I’m just not comfortable with this place yet.”

“‘Course not, darling.” 

The bartender brings him his second martini, but Holden slows his pace. He can’t be drunk for this. He has to be aware and alert. 

“Really?” Holden asks, pressing a nervous chuckle into his question. “I feel like I’m fucking this up.”

“You’re not.” Mellinger says, “I like you, Jake. You’re honest.”

“Honest?”

“Yeah, real. You’re not putting on a face like every single other person in this club. They’re all here, pretending to be something they’re not. I’ve hooked up with enough guys to know when they’re lying to me or not.” 

“I’m not good at pretending to be something I’m not.”

“Me either.” Mellinger says, “So, I’ll give you the respect of honesty. I’m not an easy hook-up, Jake. I’m not going to suck you off and tell you you’re beautiful. I’m not going to go slow or make it easy on you.”

Holden swallows hard. Crime scene photos flash across the back of his mind - livid bruises and dried, red blood, violent desires wreaked on helpless flesh. 

“Does that scare you?” Mellinger asks, leveling Holden with a dark, glinting gaze. 

“A little.” Holden whispers. 

“That’s good.” Mellinger says, reaching over to touch the back of Holden’s hand. His fingertips wander across the knuckles, his touch slow yet promising more. “You’re not really living if you’re not just a little bit afraid of the future.”

“Does it hurt?” Holden hears himself whisper, his voice hollow and distant beneath the overpowering drum of the music. 

“Maybe at first.” Mellinger says, “But, by the time I’ve worked you over, you’re going to be coming so hard it won’t matter.”

Holden pulls his hand away, an instinct he can’t smother. His body is flushing hot, terrified and exhilarated by Mellinger’s explicit promises. He can’t tell which part is him and which part is Jake, or if the line is blurring to an indistinguishable blemish in the sand. 

He jumps to his feet. 

“I’m sorry, farm boy. Did I scare you off?” Mellinger asks, regarding Holden with a tilted smile. 

“No.” Holden whispers. “Let’s get out of here.” 

~

Mellinger drives a Lincoln with black leather upholstered seats. Holden had already been through it for the warrant, but as he climbs into the passenger’s seat, a sense of foreboding clutches his chest. He’s sitting where five other men had sat before him, taking their last drive under starlit skies before they died. 

He rolls down the window as Mellinger drives them out of the downtown area. The gust of wind soothes the perspiration on Holden’s brow, but it also gives him a glimpse of the van headlights several yards behind them. He closes his eyes and tells himself that it’s going to be okay since Bill and the others are right on their tail. 

The drive takes twenty minutes as Mellinger steers them down a few side streets before they hit the county roads that wind deeper into the rural outskirts of town. Miles of fields stretch out around them, melding into farmland where the houses are far enough apart to offer the privacy it would take to torture and kill a man. 

Mellinger eases down on the brakes as they reach a decrepit, white farmhouse with a FOR SALE sign tacked in the front yard. 

“You live here?” Holden asks. 

“No, it was my grandparent’s place.” Mellinger says, “I’ve been trying to sell it, but it’s a good hookup spot in the meantime.”

“Then why sell it at all?” 

“My apartment downtown is closer to work.” Mellinger says, coolly. 

Holden smooths his sweaty palms down his pant legs as the car jostles down the rutted, stony driveway. They get out of the car, and Mellinger leads them towards the front door. Holden casts a quick glance over his shoulder at the distant strip of the road. He can see the van concealed by an outcropping of trees, invisible to an unobservant eye. 

Mellinger leads them past the front door to the living room where the area is furnished with a dated, pea green couch, a lumpy recliner, and a television. The wooden side tables hold lace doilies and lamps with fabric shades, and a hutch in the corner displays little ceramic figurines. It could be almost charming if Holden didn’t know that this was the site of five murders. 

“So …” Holden says as Mellinger turns to grasp him by the hips. “How does this work?”

Mellinger pulls him closer, and Holden glances away bashfully as their hips collide. Mellinger’s palms spread across his lower back and slide down over his backside. 

“A hook up?” Mellinger asks, chuckling softly. 

“Yes, um …” Holden whispers, peeking up at him through his eyelashes. “Do we just …”

“I’ll tell you what to do.” Mellinger says, leaning in to meld the raspy whisper into a kiss. 

Holden presses his eyes shut as Mellinger’s mouth captures his, stroking at a hungry, yet deliberate pace. He has no choice but to open his mouth as Mellinger’s tongue pushes against the seam of his lips. A groan clumps in the back of his throat as disgust churns in the pit of his stomach, and he struggles to mold it into a sound of pleasure. 

Mellinger leans back, letting Holden draw in a raspy breath. 

“Has anyone ever tied you up before?” He asks. 

Holden blinks. “During sex?”

“Yeah.”

“No.” Holden whispers, his breath catching in the back of his throat. 

Mellinger lets him go, and nods towards the hallway. “Go to the bedroom. It’s the first door on the right.” 

Holden takes a tremulous step backwards. “Are you going to … to tie me up?”

Mellinger smiles, his tongue darting against his lower lip like a rattler about to strike. His eyes are gleaming, ruthless pleasure swimming in their pale, vacant depths. 

“Wait for me.” He says. 

Holden walks numbly down the hallway, casting nervous glances at the doors on either side of him. As far as he can tell, there’s a bathroom, and maybe a few other bedrooms. He wishes he could go through every room to find what he’s looking for, but Mellinger will expect him to be in the bedroom. 

_ I can’t let him tie me up.  _ Holden thinks as he shuffles into the bedroom. There has to be some evidence in here. 

The bedroom consists of a big, four-poster bed with white sheets and a red duvet, two bedside tables, a dresser, a television, and a bookcase. Holden goes to the bedside tables first, pulling the drawers open quietly to search their contents. One has kleenex and Vaseline. The other has a lighter, a handful of loose change, a ballpoint pen, and a porn magazine. 

Cursing on under his breath, Holden rushes to the dresser next. He glances over his shoulder as he eases the drawers open. Socks, underwear, shirts, pants. Nothing unusual.

He’s sweating as he pushes the last drawer shut. Straightening, he scrapes a hand through his hair and wildly scans the room. His gaze trips over the television stand to the bookcase before coming to a halt. The shelves are filled with paperbacks, encyclopedias, and other trinkets, but on the top shelf, shoved in the corner, is a collection of VHS tapes in unlabeled, black cases. 

Holden darts across the room to the bookcase, and pulls the first tape off the shelf. His heart breaks into a terrified yet victorious rhythm as he opens the lid to see a white strip of tape stuck to the VHS, labeled in permanent marker:  _ Marshal.  _

Holden stares down at the name, his stomach churning with nausea. He knows what’s on this tape. Proof. And here he is, standing in the very same house where Marshal Hanes drew his last breath. 

A quiet squeak of a floorboard behind him paralyzes Holden. He nearly stops breathing as a metallic, scraping sound cuts through the silence. 

“Find what you were looking for?” Mellinger asks. 

Holden closes his eyes as Mellinger moves up behind him, and presses the tip of the switchblade to the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He whispers. 

“Turn around.” 

Holden turns slowly, clutching the VHS tape in his hands. 

Mellinger nudges the knife underneath Holden’s chin, forcing him to tilt his head back to avoid being pricked by the razor-sharp tip. His eyes are gleaming with devious intent, a roguish smile tilting his mouth. 

“Put it down.” He says. 

Holden reaches over to lay the VHS tape on the shelf, keeping his gaze trained on Mellinger’s hand gripping the knife. His throat moves in a slow, hard swallow, and he feels the skin sting under the duress of the blade. One wrong move, and he’s bleeding out before he can say a word.

“Open your shirt.” Mellinger says, quietly. 

Holden hesitates, panic screaming through his mind. 

“Do it, pig.” Mellinger says, his lips pulling back in an enraged snarl. 

“Okay, okay.” Holden whispers, reaching up with trembling hands to unbutton the shirt. His fingers numbly fumble with the row of buttons until the fabric parts, sliding open to reveal the wire taped to his chest. 

“Fuck.” Mellinger says, “I fucking knew it.”

Holden closes his eyes. It’s now or never. He takes a quick step back to avoid being jabbed with the knife, and shouts, “Jackpot!”

Mellinger swings with his fist, and Holden feels his back slam into the bookshelf and his jaw explode with pain just before everything fades to black. 

~

The van and three squad cars descend on the quaint farmhouse tucked in the center of a sprawling unkempt field the moment Holden shouts the code word. 

Bill had wanted to enter the house the moment that Mellinger implied he was going to tie Holden up - and before that, when the bastard put his filthy mouth on Holden, but Holden and everyone else on the task force had been insistent. After the negative polygraph, the arrest needs to be air-tight. Proof. Not just an agent stumbling into kinky sex with a gay man. 

He leaps out of the van the moment it lurches to the stop, and runs up the front steps of the porch with Taft and the hoard of uniformed officers on his heels. Gripping his pistol out in front of him, he shoulders past the front door into a living room furnished with dated decor. A quick sweep of the living room and kitchen comes up empty, but a quiet groan draws their attention to the staircase at the far left side of the room. 

Bill jogs to the base of the stairs, but comes to a dead halt when he sees Mellinger standing at the top of the landing with Holden clutched in front of him as a human shield. He has a knife against Holden’s throat. 

Taft nearly collides into Bill as they both pull to an abrupt stop. 

“Everybody, get back.” Bill shouts, casting a harried glance over his shoulder at the uniformed officers swarming the house. The last thing he wants is for a tide of police officers to press down on Mellinger’s hair trigger. 

He swings his gaze back to Mellinger who is peering over Holden’s shoulder with cold, angry eyes. 

“Mellinger, put down the knife.” Bill says, “It’s over.”

“Is it?” Mellinger asks, pressing the knife harder under Holden’s throat. 

Holden lifts his chin, his mouth opening in a pained grimace. His lower lip is split, leaking a narrow trail of blood down his chin. His panicked gaze meets Bill, silently pleading. 

Bill focuses his gaze back on Mellinger, telling himself to stay objective. 

“Yes.” Bill says, “If you hurt him, this isn’t going to end well for you.”

Mellinger chuckles, and tightens his grip on Holden’s waist. “That’s funny.”

“Funny?”

“You already know.” Mellinger says, “You told me yourself. I’ve got AIDs. You can’t kill a man who’s already dead.”

“We don’t want to kill you.” Bill says, “We want to find a satisfactory ending of all this for everyone.” 

“Satisfactory.” Mellinger echoes. “Is this some kind of FBI hostage negotiating technique?”

“Sure. What do you want?”

“You don’t have anything that I want.” 

“How do you know if you don’t ask?” Bill presses. The gun in his hands trembles, his muscles burning with tension from keeping it elevated and pointed at Mellinger. His palms are sweating, forcing him to adjust his grip. 

“What I wanted …” Mellinger says, glancing down at Holden’s flushed cheek. “I wanted this one in my bed, at my mercy, screaming as much out of pleasure as out of pain. Just like the rest of them.”

Bill swallows hard. He can feel a bead of sweat wandering down his temple. There’s not a single breath of cool air inside the cramped stairwell. 

“Well, I can’t let you have that.” He says. 

Mellinger draws in a deep breath. “I killed three junkies, three whores. No one gave a goddamn. Then I killed a senator’s son, and now I’m making the evening news cycle every single night. Could you imagine what would have happened if I had killed an FBI agent? If I had fucked him raw and torn him apart?”

“Is that what you want?” Bill asks, “Notoriety?” 

“No one cares about us unless it’s someone important.” Mellinger says, his voice growing distant as if he’s not even hearing what Bill is saying. 

“I can help you with that.” Bill says, carefully putting his foot on the lowest stair step. “We can make sure the whole world knows about you. Your name will be on every TV station in this city - hell this entire state. It could even make national news.”

Mellinger’s gaze snaps back to Bill, and he thrusts the knife under Holden’s chin. 

“Not a step closer.” He growls, taking a shuffled step backwards on the landing. 

“I can do that for you.” Bill repeats. “But I can’t let you hurt him.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Agent Tench. The world at my feet …”

“I’m a man of my word. I’ll get you what you want, but you have to give us something in return.” Bill says, flexing his fingers around the grip of the gun. His finger is resting against the trigger, twitching and ready. 

Holden whines softly as the knife presses into his pale throat, forcing his head back. Bill can see the drop of scarlet swell where the tip breaks skin. 

“You don’t know what I really want.” Mellinger says, his voice hardening. “You could never understand me even though it’s very simple.”

“Then help me understand.” 

Mellinger presses his mouth to Holden’s neck, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in deeply. Bill clenches his teeth, forcing his feet to stay grounded in their place. 

“I want to live.” Mellinger whispers. “Not just for a single day the way I have been, but every day. Freely. Truly. I want a world of choice without consequence. I want a world without pills, waking up and puking my guts out at night while no one cares - not even a little. I want to be seen, Agent Tench. I want to live.” 

Bill’s breath catches in the back of his throat. He isn’t breathing because he can see the final hinge sliding loose in Mellinger’s brain, his intentions going fuzzy and blinding as he realizes there’s no way out, no pleasure left for him to reap from weak, helpless bodies. He’s gone over the edge, like a man standing on the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge; but Bill can’t stop it as the thoughts solidify, and Mellinger's hand clutching the knife jars into motion. 

Bill thinks he hears himself shout, but everything blanks into a panicked blur. He sees the blade slip across Holden’s throat, spilling blood, so red and abundant down his bare, shuddering chest. He sees Holden’s face twist with pain right before Mellinger lets him go, right before he crumples and hits the stairs below. He feels the impulse, his finger squeezing down on the trigger; but he doesn’t remember making the conscious decision before the trigger yields beneath his finger, and the gun bucks in his hand. 

Mellinger’s body is propelled backwards by the force of the bullet slamming into his chest. He drops the knife, clutching at his heart as he staggers, his eyes wide open in horror and pain. He sways for a moment before the light fades from his eyes, and he collapses to the ground with a thud. 

Bill stands paralyzed for a moment, his trembling hands holding the gun aloft. The air smells like gunpowder and singed flesh, and his ears are ringing from the deafening explosion of the gun. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, trapped underwater, as his gaze wanders down to see Holden crumpled on the steps halfway between him and Mellinger. 

Dropping his gun, Bill clambers up the stairs to Holden. Panicked breaths rush from his lungs, echoing beyond the dull hum in his ears. Behind him, Taft is calling for an ambulance, and the uniformed officers are flooding the house, but he can’t focus on any of it. Grasping Holden’s shoulder, he rolls him over onto his back. 

“Holden. Holden.” 

Holden’s head tilts back to expose the gash across the left side of his neck, spilling blood down his chest and shoulder. So much blood - it smears wet and hot beneath Bill’s hand. He isn’t moving, isn’t responding. His eyes are shut, cheeks drained of color. 

“Fuck, Holden.” Bill whispers, yanking his jacket off with shaking hands. “Come on. Look at me.”

Holden offers up a quiet moan as Bill balls up his jacket, and presses it to his neck. Applying forceful pressure, Bill clutches Holden’s clammy cheek with his other hand. 

“Holden.” Bill says, louder despite the knot choking the back of his throat. He pats Holden’s cheek gently, trying to rouse him without too much force. “Come on, you have to look at me.”

Holden’s eyelashes flutter. His mouth slips open, uttering another choked sound of pain. 

“That’s it.” Bill whispers, rubbing his thumb across Holden’s cheek. “Open your eyes.”

Holden’s eyelids struggle open, glazed blue peeking past the tear-stained fringe of his eyelashes. “Bill …”

“Don’t try to speak.” Bill says, keeping his grasp firm on Holden’s throat.

Holden blinks, urging a tear free from his eyelashes. He draws in a shuddering breath. “Bill … don’t let me die.”

“Stop, you’re not dying.” Bill says, wiping away the tear that travels down Holden’s cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He shoots a glance over his shoulder to see Taft standing behind him, a hand tangled in his hair. His face is slack with shock. 

“Ambrose, where’s the fucking ambulance?” Bill demands. 

“They’re coming.” Taft says, breaking out of his trance to mount the stairs beside Bill. “Hang on, Holden. They’re coming.” 

Holden’s eyelids slip shut again as Taft edges his way past them to where Mellinger is lying on the floor. 

Bill turns his attention back to Holden as Taft crouches down to press his fingertips to Mellinger’s throat. 

“There’s no pulse.” He says, quietly.

Bill doesn’t look up from Holden’s pale cheeks. He’ll have to deal with Mellinger’s death later, but at this moment, with Holden’s throat bleeding beneath his hand, he can’t think about anything other than getting Holden to the hospital and out of danger. He can’t think about the ramifications, and he can’t find the will to care that James Mellinger will never draw another breath. 

~

After the ambulance arrives and they’re rushed to the nearest hospital, time slows to a gut-wrenching, torturous crawl. Bill sits in the waiting room while Holden is whisked beyond the ER doors, his body burning with the lingering half-life of adrenaline and panic. He reaches into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, and pulls one free. When he looks down to bring the lighter to the tip, he realizes his hands are covered in Holden’s blood. The front of his shirt is stained as well, and his fingers are shaking. 

He gets up to pace off the nervous energy. He smokes first one cigarette, then two, checking his watch every five minutes. Finally, assured it’s going to be longer than an hour and he has the time, he goes to the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands. He can’t do anything about his shirt, but a bloodstain is the least of his worries. 

When he comes back out into the waiting room, Taft is pacing in the same spot Bill had been ten minutes ago. 

“Bill.” He says, looking up from his shoes. “Any word?”

“Not yet. It’s only been an hour.”

“What did they say in the ambulance?”

“They think he’s going to be okay. He lost blood, but not too much since we got pressure on it right away.”

“Good. I just came from the farmhouse.” Taft says, running a hand over his jaw. “Christ, BIll. You should have seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“He had videotapes. Hours of footage. All five murders, and a few other victims we didn’t recognize. We’re going to have to go back into all the cold cases prior to the past year and a half to see if we can match any of the victims.” Taft says, his eyes misty as he meets BIll’s gaze. 

“Shit.” Bill mutters, “That’s not what I wanted to hear, but it makes sense considering the sophistication in the five we linked.” 

“That’s not all.” Taft says, “There were hundreds of polaroids too, and he had notebooks filled with drawings and notes - new ideas of how to abduct and torture these men. Some of them went back years. He’d been fantasizing about it for a long time.”

“Jesus.” Bill says. 

Taft nods, and draws in a deep breath. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“Some cases stick with you forever. You have to try to focus on the outcome.” Bill says, “We stopped him from killing again. No one else got hurt because we did good work.”

Taft pauses, his gaze lowering. “ _ You  _ stopped him.”

Bill glances away, focusing on the bland artwork of a floral arrangement hanging on the waiting room wall. The thought keeps rising up like an overflowing sink before he pushes it back down again. 

“I’m glad you did.” Taft says, finally. 

Bill’s gaze slowly meets his, and Taft’s eyes are hardened behind the glassy sheen of horror. 

“I know there will be an inquiry. Whatever statement your people want me to give, I’ll give it. You deserve a medal for putting that bastard down.”

“Thanks, Ambrose.” Bill says, patting the detective’s shoulder. “You’ve done excellent work on this case. It was a pleasure working with you.”

“You, too.” Taft says. “But I should get back. I just wanted to check in.”

“I’ll call you when I have news.” 

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.” 

“There is one thing.” Bill says, just as Taft is turning to leave. 

“What’s that?”

“Could you get in contact with Sunny?” Bill asks, “I’d really like him to know that it’s over.”

Taft nods, offering a grim smile. “Of course.”

“Thanks.”

Once Taft leaves, Bill sits down in one of the scarcely padded waiting room chairs. The adrenaline high is starting to fade, and he feels exhausted down into his bones. A glance at his watch tells him it’s edging past twelve-thirty. He tilts his head back against the wall, and closes his dry, aching eyes. 

It feels like a matter of seconds, but when he jolts awake to the doctor saying his name, another half an hour has passed. Bill rubs a hand over his eyes as the doctor approaches. The man is still in his scrubs from the surgery that bear a few blood spatters. 

“Are you Bill Tench?” The doctor asks, consulting his clipboard. 

“Yes, sir.” Bill says, climbing to his feet. “For Holden Ford.”

“Yes. I’m Dr. Wilkes.” The man says, extending his hand to shake Bill’s. “I just wanted to let you know that he’s out of surgery, and the nurses are getting him settled into a room now.”

“How did it go?”

“He’s going to be fine. The carotid was nicked, but we were able to repair it. It was a clean cut - the area should heal nicely.”

“That’s a relief.” Bill says, “Can I see him?”

“Yes, I’ll have the nurse come get you as soon as they’re ready. The sedation should wear off in about an hour.”

“Thank you.” 

The doctor disappears beyond the ER doors again, and Bill sinks down to the chair with a heavy sigh. All of the anxious tension in his body seems to unwind at once, and the aftermath hits like an iron fist to his gut. He leans over to brace his elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands over his face, smothering the abrupt clutch of his lungs rebelling with a tearful sound of relief. The grimy white tile of the floor blurs into a swimming mass of bland color, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the burgeoning emotion. 

He can’t tell if he’s simply relieved or overwhelmed. If he’s ecstatic that Holden is alive, or drowning in the consequences. Their time here has come to a messy, bloody end, unraveling the future ahead like scattering dominoes. 

_ He kissed Holden. He shot a man.  _ Those two thoughts above all else rise to the forefront of his mind in overwhelming technicolor. 

Ten minutes later, the nurse comes out to retrieve him, and by that point, he’s scraped together his composure. 

The long hallways of the hospital are dim and vacant with the late hour, the silence interrupted by the distant beep of monitors and the low hum of conversation from the nurse’s station. The anxious hum in Bill’s veins revives itself as the nurse leads him to the open door of the room, and motions him inside. 

He mutters a thank you, and crosses the room to Holden’s side. The lights are dimmed, casting his pale, motionless face in deep shadow. A white bandage is plastered over the side of his neck, masking what had been done to him. He looks peaceful tucked under the sheets with his hands arranged limply at his sides, but the IVs feeding blood and saline into his body wildly contradict that notion. 

Bill drags the chair out of the corner to the bedside, and sinks down with a shuddering sigh. For several minutes, he sits still listening to the heart monitor track Holden’s pulse, and watching his chest rise gradually with slow, sedated breaths. The realization that he’s out of danger begins to settle in. 

Leaning forward, he braces his elbows against the mattress, and carefully touches Holden’s knuckles with his fingertips. Cocooned in anesthesia, Holden is unresponsive and unaware, but Bill thinks of him in the dark shadows of the hotel room, his cheeks flushed with desire, his eyes wide and expressive, his mouth pink and pouting when Bill ended the heated kiss.  _ I wanted it.  _

Rubbing his thumb absently across Holden’s knuckles, Bill glances back up at Holden’s slumbering face. His chest squeezes, a strangle, curling warmth that eclipses the fear. 

He sits by Holden’s bed for the next half hour, anxiously waiting for his eyes to open. A little while later, a knock at the door of the room draws his attention away from Holden’s eyelashes lying still against his cheeks. He glances over his shoulder to see Sunny’s figure silhouetted in the doorway. 

Disentangling his fingers from Holden’s, Bill gets up to join Sunny by the door. 

“Hi.” He whispers. 

“Hi.” Sunny says, his gaze wandering nervously to Holden. “How is he?”

“He’s going to be fine. He should be coming out of the sedation in a little bit.” Bill says, “You didn’t have to come down here.”

“Detective Taft called me. He told me everything.”

Bill nods, his gaze darting away from Sunny’s as the implications settle in. 

“No one is going to shed any tears for James Mellinger.” Sunny says, putting a hand on Bill’s elbow. “You’re a hero, in my opinion.”

“I don’t feel like one. Even if he was a terrible human being who deserved what was coming to him, we have the justice system for a reason.”

“Justice.” Sunny scoffs, “I’m sorry, Bill, but I have to disagree with you. Justice would have been Detective Wilson doing his fucking job, and stopping the bastard before he killed two more men. It didn’t have to end like this.”

Bill slowly meets Sunny’s gaze again. Sunny’s eyes are misty, his mouth pursed into a morose line. 

“He never would have lived to see legal punishment.” Sunny says, “You know that. He may not have even made it to trial.” 

Bill nods. There’s no denying a truth they had all known, including Mellinger. 

“Listen,” Sunny says, drawing a deep breath, “I don’t want to keep you, but I’m going to have a party at the Golden Falcon tomorrow. Everyone is invited. I’m going to say a toast to you, Holden, Detective Taft, and anyone else who helped stop Mellinger. We’re going to drink, and cry tears of joy, and take our lives back. I wanted to extend an invitation.” 

Bill scoffs, and shakes his head. “I appreciate that, but I’m going to be wrapped up in a mile of red tape for the next few weeks. I don’t think I can.”

“I understand. You have to maintain appearances.” 

Bill’s gaze lingers on Sunny’s profile as Sunny gazes vacantly at Holden’s prone body. His chest clutches, and for the first time since they arrived here, he lets himself feel it. For a few fleeting seconds, he lets himself mourn what could have been. 

“Sunny …” Bill whispers. 

“Hmm?” Sunny murmurs, his gaze shifting back to Bill’s. 

“I’m sorry.” Bill says, “I’m sorry for leaving, and never trying to contact you. I’m sorry that I was too young and stupid and scared to recognize that-”

“Bill, please.” Sunny says, chuckling sadly. He puts a reassuring hand on Bill’s arm. “It was so long ago. I’ve forgiven you a hundred times over, and I realize now that some things aren’t meant to be. They’re temporary. So don’t apologize to me. Save it for him.”

Bill frowns as Sunny motions to Holden. He tries to conceal the wince of honesty that ripples down his jawline, but his defenses are in tatters, bare truth lying exposed underneath. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Sunny whispers, “When I asked you if you had someone, and you avoided the question.”

Bill doesn’t answer, his throat too knotted with this swelling realization to offer a denial, a deflection, or anything else. 

“If you love him, you should tell him now.” Sunny says, “Don’t let yourself run away from it again.”

Bill clenches his jaw as Sunny’s gaze rests gently yet firmly against him. He nods, hardly trusting his voice to speak. 

They share a silent gaze for a long moment before Sunny offers a trembling smile. 

“I should go.” He murmurs, “Please tell Holden how very grateful I am to him when he wakes up.”

“I will.” Bill whispers. 

“If I don’t see you again before you leave town, take care of yourself.” 

He touches Bill’s arm hesitantly before leaning in to wrap his arms around Bill’s shoulders. 

Alarmed, Bill stands stiffly in Sunny’s embrace for a long moment before lifting his own arms to curl them around his waist. 

Sunny gives him a squeeze, and laughs softly into Bill’s shoulder. When he leans back, his eyes are glistening. 

“Thank you.” He whispers, “I was beginning to lose faith that there were any good people in power left in the world.”

Bill retrieves his hands from Sunny’s waist though a part of him wants to let the embrace linger. He’s thought of Sunny so often through the years, wondering where he was, how he’d changed, if he was happy. Now that he has the answers, it feels like that part of his life is finally coming to an end, slipping out of his grasp, resigned to fate now written in stone. 

“You’re welcome.” He says, mustering a reserved tone. 

Sunny takes a shuffled step back, pressing his knuckles the corner of his eye to stem a tear. 

“Goodbye, Bill.” 

Bill lowers his head as Sunny turns and walks down the hallway, his pace expedited until he turns the corner and disappears. When he shifts his gaze back into the shadowed recesses of the hospital room, Holden has emerged from the anesthesia. His bleary eyes reach Bill’s with a glint of intuition and relief. Smiling softly, he lifts his fingers from the blankets in a quiet, trembling gesture for Bill to come closer. 

Bill swallows hard, his eyes stinging. He walks towards Holden, toward the truth and all its consequences. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Predictions for the last chapter? Let me know in the comments 💛


	9. emancipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

Holden swims from the deep waters of sleep towards the distant, white light spilling past the doorway of his hospital room. As his eyes struggle open, he glimpses the fuzzy, dark outline of two figures embracing just a few feet away. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but the embrace is familiar and affectionate. 

It takes Holden a moment to connect what he’s seeing to the events of the past few days. Dragging the soggy, sedated mass of his brain free of the darkness, he recalls the farmhouse and Mellinger, the knife cutting his throat, the blast of the gun. He recalls Bill leaning over him, begging him to open his eyes. He’d thought he would die right there on those steps. 

As Sunny and Bill break apart, Holden blinks against the disoriented film in his eyes. He watches as Sunny whispers something quietly before turning, and walking away. Bill stands still, watching him go. He looks tired, but not defeated - rather  _ resigned.  _

Bill’s gaze shifts across the room, and his eyes brighten when he sees Holden awake. 

Holden’s arm feels as if it weighs ten pounds as he lifts it from the sheets. 

Crossing the room to him, Bill sinks down to the chair beside the bed, and catches Holden’s upraised hand between both of his palms. The grasp is warm and secure, grounding Holden in the present.

“Hey.” He whispers, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Holden swallows, trying to find his voice in the dry, aching depths of his throat. 

Bill grabs the cup of water from the bedside table, and holds the straw to his mouth. Holden sucks down the cold, refreshing water desperately until the dehydrated ache in his throat eases and the straw scrapes empty. 

Bill sets the cup aside, and gently wipes the damp corner of Holden’s mouth with the back of his fingers. 

“Is he dead?” Holden asks, his voice low and scraped like sandpaper. 

Bill’s brow knots, and he nods wordlessly. 

Holden lets out a breath, and closes his eyes. “Good.”

Bill gives his hand a squeeze. “The doc said you’re going to be alright.” 

Holden peeks up at Bill’s face shadowed in the dim light from the hall. His eyes are bloodshot with exhaustion, but the sight of him has never been more pleasing.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a scar, though.” Bill says, offering a quiet chuckle. 

“You think I’ll look like a badass?” Holden asks. The soft laugh that rises in his throat sends a sharp pain through his neck, and he presses his jaw shut against the whimper that rises next. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, his fingers flexing worriedly around Holden’s hand. “A real badass.”

Holden lets his eyes slide shut. His brain wants to slip back into darkness, but there’s a stronger part of him that’s yearning for the truth, every detail. 

“Was Sunny here?” He asks. 

Bill hesitates to answer until Holden opens his eyes, and pins him with a resilient gaze. 

Lowering his head, he rubs his fingertips across his forehead. “Yeah. He asked me to tell you that he’s grateful for what you did.” 

Holden nods. “Is that it?” 

Bill’s hand slips free of Holden’s, and he leans back in the chair. His chest lifts with a slow, weighted inhale. His eyes are hazy blue in the semi-darkness, telling the truth before he opens his mouth. 

“I … I suppose you should know.” He says, finally. “I owe you that much.”

Holden holds his gaze. His pulse rises from its languid crawl as the electric hum of raw honesty stretches out between them. Bill’s eyes are misty in a way that Holden has never seen them before. 

“I lied to you.” Bill says, his jaw rippling with an anxious clench. “When we first reviewed the case, and you asked me if I had ever heard of the Falcon before.”

Holden licks his lips. Somehow, he hadn’t expected the deceit to go back so far, for everything he’s believed about Bill to be slightly altered by a decades old lie. 

“I did.” Bill whispers, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I met Sunny in 1950, a few months before I got shipped off to Korea.”

Holden shifts his gaze to the ceiling, drawing in a steadying breath. “You had an affair?”

“Not exactly.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“We never slept together. It was more of a … flirtation.”

Holden considers that choice of word carefully. Bill is heavy-handed, rough around the edges. When he commits to something, he commits entirely. Perhaps not physically, but emotionally. The level of sexual contact hardly matters. 

“Did you love him?” 

When Bill fails to respond, Holden shifts his gaze from the ceiling. Bill’s face is turned away, towards the floor, his fist notched white-knuckled beneath his chin. 

“You can say ‘yes.’” Holden’s voice drops to a gentle whisper. “I’m not angry with you.”

Bill’s gaze drifts slowly from the floor to meet Holden’s. His mouth purses, and his chin dips incrementally. 

Holden draws in a breath, and nods. “Okay.” 

Bill leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought you might-”

“Judge you? Bill, I don’t care.” 

Bill’s brow furrows, anxiously. 

“I kissed a complete stranger a few days ago.” Holden says, “I kissed a psychopathic killer … I kissed _ you _ .” 

Bill scoffs. “Oh, so I’m in the same category with Mellinger?” 

“No.” Holden says, his mouth tilting in a trembling smile. “You’re … you’re in your own category.”

Bill’s eyes soften just before they drop away again, a faint flush crawling up his cheeks. 

“When I was fifteen, I kissed a boy at church camp.” Holden says, abruptly, allowing the truth - a truth he has never told anyone else - to surge free. 

Bill’s eyes swing back to Holden’s, surprise registering across his face. “What?” 

“Yeah.” Holden says, “His name was Jake. And I think you might have been a lot like him when you were that age.” 

“How’s that?” 

“Trying to start a fist fight with the entire world.” Holden whispers, “A little wounded, looking for someone to listen, to see him.”

The corners of Bill’s eyes glisten, but he quickly blinks away the gathering sheen. He gives a forced laugh. “You have no idea what I was like at fifteen.” 

“I know enough.”

They sit quietly for a long moment. Holden doesn’t feel as angry as he thought he might now that Bill has told him the truth. He’d spent much of his own life denying his feelings, pretending that what happened with Jake was an anomaly, never meant to be repeated. He can’t fault Bill for struggling with the same demon. 

“So …” Holden murmurs, at length. “Are you and Sunny going to …”

“What? Reconnect?” Bill asks, then gives a sad laugh. “Ah, no. That train left the station a few decades ago.”

“Why?” 

“I left. I got my orders, I told him I was leaving, and then I never went back. I went and lived my life the way I thought I wanted to live it. Besides, he’s happy now. He’s got a long-term partner, and he seems like he’s got what he wants.” 

“That’s good.” Holden murmurs. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, “Trust me, he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t  _ need  _ me, for that matter. I’ve done enough damage to him.” 

Holden casts Bill a compassionate gaze. He wants to soothe the hurt in his voice, but more than that, he wants to tell Bill that  _ he  _ needs him - that Bill hasn’t damaged him or hurt him despite their disagreements. 

Bill clears his throat, and rises from the chair. “I should get the nurse, have her look you over now that you’re awake.”

Holden isn’t sure whether it’s the drugs flushing his veins or the lingering high of a near death experience, but he feels a sudden bolt of confidence in his chest that he doesn’t want to let go to waste. If he lets this moment pass, he might not find the courage again. 

“Bill.” He says, pushing up against the pillows despite the shaft of pain that goes through his neck. 

Bill pauses in the doorway. “Yeah?” 

“Can you close the door for a minute?” 

Bill frowns at him, confusion swimming in his eyes, but he slowly eases the door shut. 

“Come here.” Holden nods for Bill to return to his side.

Bill’s nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches as he gazes across the room at Holden’s determined expression. Understanding ripples beneath the tired glaze in his eyes, surfacing right alongside the nervous twitch in his fingers. 

He shuffles across the room to Holden’s side. Holden pats the edge of the mattress beside him, and he sits down slowly. 

Holden gently runs his fingertips over Bill’s knuckles, and curls his fingers around his calloused palm. He pushes away from the pillows, gritting his teeth against a wince of pain. 

“You should lay down.” Bill says, his other hand curling around Holden’s shoulder. 

"No, I'm okay."

Holden sits upright, bringing his face within inches of Bill’s. His breath surges, exhilarated from the brief exertion and the heady anticipation racing through his blood. He tries to steady the shuddering in his lungs, but Bill reaches up to touch his cheek and the graze of his fingers is enough to make Holden feel faint. 

He leans closer, focusing on the somber bow of Bill’s mouth. 

“I … I want to kiss you again.” He whispers, the confession halting from the back of his throat. 

Bill's brow creases with a conflicted frown. “Holden-”

“Please.” Holden murmurs, lifting a wavering hand to touch Bill’s chin. Day old stubble scrapes beneath his touch, layering tactile sensation over the magnetic desire humming in his veins. He edges his fingers upward, touching the soft pucker of Bill’s lower lip.

Bill’s fist closes around his wrist, gently prying Holden’s fingers away from his mouth. He breathes in quiet yet agitated shivers for a long moment before his pale blue eyes reach up to grip Holden’s. Desire crackles like lightning in their transparent depths, barely shielded by a clinging hesitation. 

“Please.” Holden whispers, again, “Can I kiss you?”

Bill swallows hard, his fingers cinching so tightly around Holden’s wrist that it aches. He gives a slight nod. 

The slight gesture is barely complete before Holden leans in, pressing his mouth gingerly against Bill’s. His mouth lingers against Bill’s lower lip as he absorbs the sensation, feather-light and warm yet fiercely taking him apart. A muted moan rises in the back of his throat as he shifts closer, opening his mouth with a shudder. His lips stroke slowly and gently against Bill’s trembling mouth in a kiss that’s nearly chaste and juvenile in it’s tentative yet longing insecurity. 

Bill’s fingers loosen around Holden’s wrist as the kiss lingers, a simmering, gradual collision of curious, hesitant mouths. Slowly, his lips part against Holden’s, and they share a shivering inhale and exhale, a choked groan that Holden isn’t certain he or Bill is making. 

Indecision melts away as their mouths surge with purposeful, blooming need. Bill leans into the kiss, scraping Holden’s chin with stubble and making his lips sting with a deliberate suckle across his lower lip. Holden gasps in a quiet sound as Bill’s mouth comes off his lower lip, and quickly plants itself down again in a deepened slant over Holden’s open, trembling lips.

Holden’s whole body hums with anticipation and relief, a held longing like a breath deprived of oxygen finally bursting. Deflated and weak, overwhelmed with the gentle, needy ache of the kiss, Holden leans into the solid strength of Bill’s chest. 

Their mouths detach with a muted gasp, and he burrows his face in Bill’s neck to stifle a joyful sob. 

Bill wraps his arms tightly around Holden’s waist, his touch igniting with a longing ferocity. He drags Holden against him, his fingers carding desperately through his hair, his breath rasping hot and swift against his ear. 

“It’s okay.” He whispers, rubbing his other hand down Holden’s shuddering back. “I’ve got you.”

Holden smothers a shuddering gasp in Bill’s neck, and feels his tear-stained cheek slide against Bill’s skin. He nods, unable to say that it is okay, he’s more okay than he’s ever been. He’s too overwhelmed, and Bill wants to hold him, comfort him; so he lets him, huddling quietly in his arms as Bill rocks him, his fingers winding through the hair at Holden’s nape. 

When Holden is quiet again, he leans back slowly, rubbing the back of his hand against his wet cheek. 

Bill’s thumb smudges against his other cheek, soothing away the lingering tears before he presses a kiss in their place. 

“Are you okay?” He murmurs, his eyes stoic with concern. 

Holden nods, choking on a laugh. “Never better.”

Bill’s mouth curls in a wry smile. “I think you’re delirious. I better get the nurse to turn off that morphine drip before I have a madman on my hands.”

Holden nods, still laughing through a glaze of elated tears. 

“Okay.” Bill says, “Lay down now. I mean it.”

Holden sinks back against the pillows, and Bill draws the sheets up around him. Cradling Holden’s cheek, he presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

He slips out of the room, letting a shaft of light stretch in from the hall, and spill across the bed spread. In the pale, milky light, Holden’s fingers tremble in his lap. His mind runs back over the details, Bill’s fingers on his cheek, his mouth on Holden’s, his arms around him. He’d expected himself to feel differently, perhaps afraid. He’s been hiding from these feelings inside him, containing a storm, a little chaos, a solitary tragedy for so long that he’d thought maybe it would hurt to finally let himself be honest; but he isn’t in pain, not from Bill or the answer to the question he’s been asking himself for years. He’s walking free of a self-imposed prison, emancipated, unburdened, alive. 

~

Holden spends another day in the hospital before he’s released. Bill takes the time to write and file the last of the reports on the undercover operation at the Falcon. An officer had taken Holden’s statement at the hospital, and he reads it over and over again, a part of him still amazed that Holden had walked away from it all with what amounted to a glorified cut. 

The diminished privacy of the conference room is invaded every other hour by another detective or officer who wants to come in and shake his hand. Family members of the victims turn up later that day to offer their thanks. Bill tells every single one of them that Holden is the real hero in the situation. He’d sacrificed himself to bring down a killer, and Bill had done nothing more than remove their opportunity for a fair trial and public accounting of Mellinger’s crimes. None of them agree with him, but it only assuages his guilt by a measure. 

After he files the last report, Taft takes him out for a drink at a local cop bar. 

“I know what you’re going home to.” Taft says, taking a grim sip of his beer. 

“OPR.” Bill says, uttering a heavy sigh. “I’ve dealt with them before. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“I hope they don’t ride your ass too hard. You did a good thing. Everyone thinks so.”

Bill shakes his head. “It’s the first time in the last twenty years I’ve drawn my weapon on a suspect. Once I left Korea, I thought I was done with killing.” 

Taft is quiet for a long moment before speaking quietly, “In war, death is imminent. And in a way, this is a war, Bill. Men’s lives are at stake. People are dying not just of sickness but of hate. We’re an endangered species.” 

Bill frowns.  _ We.  _ But, he doesn’t mention it. 

They finish the last of their beer, and Taft shakes his hand and thanks him again. 

Bill checks out of the hotel while the sun starts sinking low in the sky, melding into dusk. As he drives over to the hospital to pick up Holden, some antique love song comes on the radio. In the silence, without the shrill ring of bullpen telephones, police chatter, and reports to fill out, he lets his thoughts lapse backwards toward the previous day when Holden asked to kiss him - then kissed him like it was the last scrap of physical affection he was ever going to feel. 

Bill still isn’t sure how to deal with it. He’s been clinging to defensive self-preservation for so long that his first instinct is to smother this fledgling thing between them struggling to draw its first, infant breath. It’s like fragile china in his hands, too gentle and good for him, for the things he’s done. What if he hurts Holden the way he hurt Sunny, the way he hurt Nancy, the way he’s hurt everyone he’s ever tried to love? 

Bill parks in front of the hospital, and smokes a cigarette until the burst of panic subsides. Sunlight peeks over the tops of the trees, melting into oversaturated yellow and pink, their last day in Georgia. When they get home, nothing about Quantico will have changed, but nothing will ever go back to the way it was. 

Tossing his cigarette to the pavement, Bill gets out of the car, and strides across the parking lot to the front doors of the hospital. When he gets to Holden’s room, the nurse is giving him one last bandage change before he’s discharged. 

Holden casts him a shy smile as the nurse finishes taping the bandage to his neck. 

“Ready, kemosabe?” Bill asks, mustering a casual tone. 

Holden nods. “Yes, please. I’m dying to go home.” 

The nurse lets them go with a script for pain med and care instructions for the wound. Once they’re walking across the parking lot together, Holden reaches over to catch Bill’s hand in his own. They stop at the hood of the car, fingers nudging hesitantly against one another. 

“We should talk.” Holden says, his gaze somberly lifting from the pavement to Bill’s eyes. 

Bill nods. “Not here.” 

Holden’s fingers slip free of Bill’s, and he draws in a deep breath. Their gazes hold for a moment before they part at the front of the car, and climb inside. 

The drive to the airport is quiet, mellow jazz tunes tumbling from the speakers. Bill peeks glances across the car at Holden, but his face is turned towards the half-lowered window, the breeze rustling his disheveled hair. 

On the airplane, Holden quietly asks about the conclusion of the case. Bill tells him about the videotapes and notebooks, and all the other evidence they found at the farmhouse. They’d discovered after the fact that the house, which had once belonged to Mellinger’s grandparents, had been repossessed by the bank, effectively eliminating any paper trail back to him. It had been sitting on the market by the bank for the better part of two years, discarded and forgotten, turned killing ground. 

They’re quiet for several minutes, absorbing the lingering darkness of Mellinger’s crimes. Then Bill tells him about all the people that came by the station to give their thanks. 

“Well, it seems like it was a victory for everyone.” Holden says. 

“Let’s hope Ted and OPR see it that way.”

Holden reaches over to put a hand on Bill’s forearm, the most contact they can allow inside the crowded plane with a stranger sitting in the aisle chair right beside them. 

“Either way, I’m on your side.” Holden says, smiling softly. “For better or worse.”

Bill smiles back at him, feeling some of the anxiety in his chest fade. He’s not sure where exactly they stand right now or how to proceed, but Holden’s confidence, his simple presence at Bill’s side, is enough reassurance for the present. 

~

Bill is scheduled to meet with OPR at 4:30 on Monday as soon as they return from Columbus. They also take his sidearm as soon as he walks through the door. It’s standard procedure after a suspect is shot by an agent, but the feeling of not having it at his hip only adds to the burrowed knot of nerves in his belly. 

He spends the day working through the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated during he and Holden’s absence, trying to focus despite his anxiety. Ten minutes before he’s scheduled to meet with OPR, Holden pokes his head into his office. 

“Hey,” He says, “I’m probably going to be gone for the day when you get out of the meeting so I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

“Thanks. When do you have your meeting?” 

“Tomorrow, first thing.” Holden says, “Call me to let me know how it goes?”

“Of course.” 

“Okay.” Holden says, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “See you tomorrow.”

Bill leans back in his chair as he watches Holden retreat. He grabs his cigarettes, and lights one up. 

They haven’t spoken like they said they would, and Bill isn’t sure if Holden is waiting for him to initiate the conversation or if it’s the other way around. The thought hovers over their shoulders, solidified in Holden’s recurring, bashful gazes. They’d spent the morning round table in the conference room trading glances, and Bill feels like an awkward teenager with a crush again - too nervous to say anything, but unable to stop himself from staring at the object of his affection. 

At 4:30, Bill takes the elevator up to the OPR offices. The three agents shake his hand before they all take a seat. One of them is Rich Masterson, an agent Bill had briefly worked with in the early BSU days. After they exchange pleasantries about how it’s been such a long time, Rich gets right down to business. 

“Okay, I know it’s the end of the day.” He says, “Let’s get this over with.” 

He turns on the tape recorder, and leans back in his chair. 

Bill states his name and job title for the record before plunging into the details of the case. He lays it out as simply and concisely as he can, making certain to emphasize that an agent’s life had been in danger. The OPR officers ask probative questions throughout, maintaining a facade of austere authority. 

Bill is sweating beneath his collar by the time he finishes the recounting. 

One of the agents leans forward to shut off the tape recorder. They’re all quiet for a long moment before Bill clears his throat. 

“Is that all?” 

“Yes.” The agent says, “You can go.” 

Bill gets up to leave, but Masterson catches him just outside the office. 

“Hey, Bill.” He says, offering his hand. 

“Rich.” Bill says, returning the shake. “I gotta say, I didn’t expect to see you in OPR.”

Rich scoffs, “I said I’d never go to the dark side, but here I am. It’s all about salary when it comes down to it, you know.”

“Sure.” Bill says, not smiling as he waits for the real reason Masterson approached him. 

Rich clears his throat, and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Look, Bill, those other two guys are OPR pros. They’ve been around since Hoover. They’ve got to act like a bunch of ruler-weilding Catholic nuns because it’s their job, but I want you to know, this all just procedure.”

“Yeah.” Bill says, “I understand. There has to be an accounting when an agent guns someone down.”

“Sure.” Rich says, “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but we had a phone call with Senator Lindower this morning. Everything gets filed and goes into your record, but there’s not going to be any type of reprimand or censure.” 

“Lindower backed me up, huh?” Bill says, giving a choked laugh of relief. 

“Yep. If I were you, I’d send that guy the best bottle of wine you can find.” 

“I think I will.” Bill says, “Thanks, Rich. I’ll see you around.” 

“Or not.” Rich says, casting him a smirk, “Unless you plan on shooting down another suspect.”

“Not in this decade. Or the next.” 

When he gets back down to the basement, everyone has cleared out for the day. He gathers his things from his desk, but pauses as his gaze lands on the telephone. A sudden surge of confidence runs through his chest, untethered by the good news from Rich. 

He grabs the phone, and dials Holden’s number. 

“Hello?” Holden answers. 

“Hi, it’s me.” Bill says, “I just got out of OPR.”

“How did it go?” 

“How about I tell you in person?” 

There’s a beat of hesitation from across the line before Holden says, “Yeah. That sounds great.”

“Good. What do you have to drink in your fridge?”

“A case of beer.” 

“Good enough.” Bill says, checking his watch. “I’ll be over in, say, twenty minutes?”

“Okay.” Holden says, his tone subdued yet eager. “See you a little in bit.”

“Okay, bye.”

Bill drops the receiver back into the cradle, and stands still for a moment, hardly believing what he’d just initiated. As much as he can tell himself it's just a beer and conversation, he knows a deeper part of himself is longing for something more. 

The twenty minute drive to Holden’s apartment seems to take forever, a long string of slow-poke drivers and last minute red lights. Bill smokes while he drives, trying to take the edge off his nerves. 

_ Nothing has to happen.  _ He tells himself, but he knows better. It doesn’t  _ have  _ to, but he needs it, wants it. They both do, that much he’s certain of. 

Once Bill reaches the apartment, Holden is waiting for him in the lobby. He’s still in his work clothes minus jacket and tie. The bandage on his neck is clearly visible with his collar undone. His sleeves are rolled up in sloppy folds, and he looks about as prepared to face the night as Bill is. 

“Hey.” He murmurs as Bill approaches. 

“Hey.” 

Holden bites back a smile, and turns to punch in the code to let them past the lobby. As they step into the elevator together, he casts Bill a hesitant glance through his eyelashes. 

“You don’t seem upset.” Holden says, “I take it the meeting went well?”

“As well as OPR can go. An old pal of mine works in that department now. Guess what he told me.”

Holden’s eyes are bright and attentive beneath the canned lights of the elevator. He smiles, coyly. “I don’t know. What?” 

“George Lindower called, personally.” Bill says, “I don’t know specifically what he said, but my buddy, Rich, guaranteed me I’m not going to be facing any kind of penalty.”

“Really?” Holden says, his eyes widening. “That’s great.”

The elevator doors slide open, and he waves for Bill to follow him down the hall. He casts a glance over his shoulder as they reach the apartment door. 

“So you’re off the hook completely?” 

“Sounds like it.” Bill says, “I’ll have to send the guy a bottle of wine, or a gift basket - or both.”

Holden eases the door shut behind them, and nods at the couch. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the beer.”

Bill shrugs out of his jacket, and loosens his tie as he takes a seat on the couch. The coffee table is littered with case files that Holden had brought home with him. He quietly wonders if Holden ever stops working, or if there’s crime scene photos in between his bed sheets as well. 

Bill blinks the thought of Holden’s bed out of his mind as Holden’s voice wanders from the kitchen. 

“That makes me feel a lot better about my meeting with them tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Bill says, “I say just be completely honest and give them the facts, but don’t volunteer extra information. They seem to be happy to close the books on it once they get our statements.” 

Holden carries two Miller Lites from the kitchen, and hands one to Bill. 

“Thanks.” Bill says, taking a swig of the beer. 

Holden sits down next to him with a sigh, but absently cradles his own drink in his lap. 

“What are you working on?” Bill asks, turning slightly on the couch so that he can get a good view of Holden’s profile without making it obvious that he’s staring at the pout of his lower lip.

“Arkansas.” Holden says, leaning forward to sift through the papers until he withdraws a police report. “They have what looks like a serial arsonist.”

“We don’t usually work arson.” Bill says, “It’s almost always personal cause cases, or a victimless crime.” 

“This one isn’t. They found two victims tied to their bed in this latest fire.”

“Jesus.” 

“It’s unusual.” Holden says, his brow furrowing gently. “Fascinating, actually. This could be groundbreaking, you know. A whole new subset of psychopathy.”

Bill swallows hard as Holden lifts his head, catching Bill’s concentrated stare. They’re quiet for a long moment, and Holden blushes, his throat shifting as he swallows. Silent insinuation traverses the humming space between them, a quiet longing like a matchstick not yet burst into flame, its components motionless and unfulfilled. 

Bill forces his gaze away, and tries to inhale a stifled breath. 

“What have you got so far?” He asks, making an attempt at sounding casual. 

“Well, like you said most arsonists don’t kill.” Holden says, his voice wavering. “So, I’m equating this killer closer to the psychopathy of a bomber rather than a serial killer.” 

“Okay. What’s the reasoning?” 

“With a fire, you have to watch from a distance. You can’t get up close and personal. You can’t watch the victim suffer. I find it much more likely that he wanted to make a statement rather than extract pleasure from the experience.” 

“Makes sense.” 

“He may even be psychotic, and have delusions that he must set fires or kill people to fulfill a mission.” 

Bill nods. “What else?” 

“That’s all I have so far.” 

Bill looks up from his lap where his beer is sweating in his palm. 

Holden gazes back at him, wide-eyed, mouth pursed. It’s unusual for him to be quiet, to not have anything to say. 

Bill doesn’t know how to fill in those silences, or translate the burning hum radiating through his veins into honest explanation. He doesn’t know how to do what Sunny told him - tell Holden the truth. The real truth. Not just the past, but their present as well. 

Holden takes a sip of his beer, and sets it carefully on the coffee table among the scattered photographs of burnt flesh and charred shells of buildings. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asks, softly. 

Bill tilts his beer to his mouth, swallowing down a foamy mouthful to ease the thundering in his chest. He sets the bottle next to Holden’s. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean.” Holden urges, reaching over to touch Bill’s knee. 

“I’m not.” Bill says, “I just … Christ, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?” 

Bill glances up at him, and Holden’s eyes are gentle and unassuming, coaxing honesty from the clutched confines of Bill’s chest. 

“This.” Bill murmurs, hesitantly laying his palm over Holden’s knuckles. 

“It’s okay. I’m scared, too.”

“I’m not scared, I’m just-” Bill’s defiant protest cuts off when Holden’s head tilts, his gaze securing Bill’s skeptically. 

Bill sighs, and glances away, rubbing his other hand over his mouth. 

“Maybe …” Holden whispers, shifting closer. “You could start by kissing me. That seemed to work the last time.”

Bill shuts his eyes. His head rushes with heat, with desire. His thoughts race ahead even as he tries to pull back on them. Yes, he wants to kiss Holden, but he wants to do more than that - and would Holden think less of him if Bill pinned him to the couch right now and ravished him senseless? Shouldn’t he go slow, ease them into this? 

Holden’s hand against his cheek draws Bill’s eyes open again. He lets Holden’s touch turn his face, bringing their foreheads together. They breathe against one another in the narrow space, gazes trading silent need and melting hesitation. 

Bill reaches up to clutch Holden’s cheeks between both his hands. Pressing his eyes shut, he clings onto his self-control a second longer before he leans in to kiss Holden’s mouth. 

Holden moans softly as their lips meet, urging closer to Bill. 

Bill draws in a shuddering breath through his nostrils, letting the kiss go stationary. Their mouths are attached, clinging to one another as if sewn together, and he doesn’t want to let go, not even to breathe. 

Holden tilts his head in Bill’s embrace, and slips his mouth open. Bill’s mouth slots against his at this new angle, dragging in a long, simmering stroke until both his lips close around Holden’s bottom one. He sucks softly on the plump skin before leaning back, and Holden doesn’t resist as his lip extends in Bill’s grip before wetly slipping free. 

He pants softly, his mouth hanging open, pink and slick. Bill focuses on the saliva gleaming on his mouth, unable to catch his breath. His chest is pounding, need rising like an avalanche, untamable. 

He kisses Holden harder, and Holden whines, clutching at Bill’s shirt. His body leans into Bill, compliant and eager while his mouth drifts open. He shudders as Bill’s mouth strokes hungrily, so fiercely that when he withdraws again, Holden’s mouth is raw and bright pink from the friction. 

Bill suppresses a groan as he pushes his thumb across Holden’s lower lip, smearing saliva and urging a whimper from Holden’s throat. 

“Fuck.” Bill whispers, lowering his head. He clutches Holden’s cheeks between his trembling hands, fighting off the urges surging through him, crippling his good intentions. 

“What is it?” Holden asks, his voice high-pitched and paper-thin. 

Bill lifts his head. His cheeks are burning as he meets Holden’s innocuous gaze. “Fuck, I … I don’t just want to kiss you, Holden.”

Holden blinks, his mouth parting around a hitched breath. He swallows hard, and nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Yes.” Holden says, “Me too.”

Bill clenches his jaw against a groan. Grasping Holden’s knee, he pushes it up against the back of the couch so that he can crawl between Holden’s thighs. 

Holden spills back against the couch cushions, breathing heavily, cheeks flushing red with desire. 

Bill crawls over him, bending to press a row of wet kisses across his mouth, cheek, and jaw. Holden tilts his head back, muttering a sigh of pleasure as the rain of kisses nuzzles under his jaw and against the shell of his ear. 

“God, all the … all the things I’ve thought of doing to you.” Bill whispers, the words staggered from some place deep in his chest where they’ve been buried for so long. 

Holden shudders, offering up a breathless whimper that stirs the bolting need in Bill’s chest deeper, down into his belly. 

“You don’t even fucking know.” Bill whispers, his teeth snagging on Holden’s earlobe. 

Holden moans, and grabs at the buttons of his shirt. He gets them halfway undone before Bill’s hands intervene, slapping his fumbling fingers out of the way. Bill unbuttons the shirt the rest of the way, and pushes it open. 

When he leans back, Holden’s thighs are trembling and open around his hips, his cock tenting the front of his trousers. 

“Please.” Holden whispers, his hands clutched submissively above his head. “I-I want to know.”

Bill grabs at the buckle of Holden’s belt, his misgivings floating to the wind. An unstoppable inertia grips him, as if Holden’s mouth had set loose a runaway train that can’t be slowed or halted. His brain is swimming in a haze of need, his hands moving of their own volition, his cock aching like it hasn’t in years. 

Holden lifts his hips eagerly as Bill strips him of his trousers. He pushes up onto his elbows, and tears out of his button-up and undershirt. Both garments fall in a heap on the carpet, leaving him quaking his briefs. 

Bill bends down to kiss him again, smothering Holden’s desperate moans while his hands journey down Holden’s bare chest and stomach. As he reaches the waistband of the briefs, he pauses a moment to let the intention sink in. Holden’s hips squirm impatiently, and his teeth nip at Bill’s lower lip in a silent plea. 

Bill pulls back to watch Holden’s face when he grasps his erection through the thin barrier of the underwear. 

Holden’s mouth stretches open in a gasp, and his hips lurch up against the languishing pressure of Bill’s hand. 

“Oh God …” He pants, his brow furrowing in needy concentration. “Bill-”

Bill rubs him softly through the briefs, watching pleasure and arousal sift across Holden’s expression in flinching turns. When he’s certain that Holden’s body is primed and compliant to his touch, he slips his fingers under the waistband. 

Holden purses his mouth over a moan as Bill slowly drags the underwear down his thighs and calves. He kicks them from his ankles, and lets his legs lapse open in an eager, pliant pose. 

Bill plants a kiss against the corner of his mouth before leaning back on his heels to peruse Holden’s naked body spread out onto the couch in front of him. His slender midsection ripples and tenses with exhilarated breaths, pressing his ribs hard against pale skin as he arches needily from the cushions. His hard, pink cock swells from dark, groomed pubic hair and swollen balls to twitch helplessly against the milky wash of his belly, so aroused despite the scarce touch Bill had applied. 

Bill slides a palm up Holden’s inner thigh, feeling him tremble as his touch approaches the throbbing center of him. 

Holden’s eyes slip open, watching Bill with a fixed expression of intense arousal and desperation. His teeth scrape at his lower lip, turning the skin raw with his anticipation. 

Bill holds his gaze as he slides off the edge of the couch to kneel on the carpet below. Grasping Holden’s thighs, he drags him into position with his hips lined up underneath Bill’s mouth. 

Holden presses the back of his hand to his forehead, appearing faint. 

Bill drops a kiss to his bare hip, introducing slight contact to the tender area. “Good?” 

Holden nods. “Yes. Please, don’t stop.”

Bill’s hand slips in between them, palm grazing along the underside of Holden’s balls. The tender sacs roll compliantly against the light pressure, and Holden’s hips buck wildly against it. 

“Oh my god.” Holden gasps, clutching at the edge of the couch cushion with a white-knuckled fist. “Bill, oh-”

His cry cuts off into a choked sound of need as BIll’s palm continues its journey upward, over the base of his cock and around the shaft. 

Holden pants through his nostrils, and his belly quivers with clenching arousal. His eyes are glazed and blown with need as Bill’s fingers circle the shaft, squeezing softly in a few languid pulls. 

Licking his lips, Bill leans forward to expel a heated exhale across the swollen, pink head. 

Holden goes still, anticipation building in the uncontrollable quivers writhing through his belly and cock. 

The head slips past Bill’s lips, slowly and tenderly. It tastes heady, of flesh and salt. A groan rises from the back of his throat as he goes down, taking a few inches against his tongue before sliding back to the tip again. 

“Oh, fuck.” Holden whispers, his trembling hand reaching down to clutch at Bill’s nape. “Bill … Jesus-”

Bill cuts a quick glance upward to watch Holden’s expression crumble to one of abject pleasure. He sucks down again, lathering Holden’s cock in his saliva before sliding into a slow, steady rhythm. 

Holden’s hips begin to buck, and Bill slides his left hand up to brace against his belly. He can feel Holden’s insides quivering with need as he spreads his fingers across the soft skin, gently digging his fingers in to hold him steady. 

Gasping softly, Holden reaches down to clutch at the back of Bill’s hand, holding it against him as much as he is holding on for dear life. His nails dig in as Bill’s mouth hastens against him. 

“Oh my god.” Holden whimpers, his head tilting back against the cushions and his back arching sharply with a rift of pleasure. “Yes. Fuck, yes …”

Bill hums against the thick weight of Holden’s cock rutting against his tongue, deeply satisfied by Holden’s desperate arousal. It’s all he wanted, even more than his own pleasure. He’d spent years thinking Holden would hate him for wanting this, but the truth is so much kinder, so much more blissful. 

He closes his eyes, letting the fears of the past melt away behind him. He applies all his wants into this deliberate ministration, urging Holden closer and closer to the edge. Above him, Holden moans and stiffens, gasps and writhes, and Bill absorbs every response, trying to catalogue this moment, to preserve every second if he can. 

It’s all over faster than he’d hoped, though each second is slipping by like sticky honey turning to a quicksilver, thundering downpour. He can’t be sure of just how long it's been when Holden’s hips bolt up against his mouth in a stiff seize of satisfaction. 

“Oh god,” Holden pants, tugging at Bill’s hand. “Bill, I’m coming.”

Bill pulls back, letting Holden’s cock fall from his mouth into the grip of his hand. He opens his eyes to see Holden’s mouth slipping open in awestruck pleasure, his eyes slamming shut against the wave of pleasure engulfing him. His hips spasm beneath the duress of Bill’s hand stroking his cock over the edge, and he starts to come in ecstatic bursts. 

Bill tugs their hands out of the path of cum spilling copiously up his belly and chest, and Holden laces his fingers through Bill’s, clinging on with nearly bone crushing force. He gasps and moans through every convulsion until the force of it eases, and he sinks down against the cushions with a finished whimper. 

Bill eases his hand away from Holden’s wilting cock. Sinking back on his heels, he lets out a sigh of relief. 

His charging desires slow and deflate, reality setting in. He gingerly runs his gaze over Holden’s soft, pale thighs, his wilting cock, his belly quivering and gleaming with release. When he reaches Holden's face, Holden is gazing at him past half-lowered lashes, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction. He blushes deeply as their gazes connect, sharing the dispersing aftermath of his pleasure. 

Clearing his throat, Bill climbs to his feet, and gently disentangles his fingers from Holden’s. He drops a kiss on his forehead.

“I’ll be right back.”

Going into the kitchen, he searches Holden’s drawers until he finds a clean stack of washcloths. He dampens one in the sink before returning to the living room where Holden is lying in melted, flushed disarray. 

Holden stifles a chuckle as Bill sits down beside him and wipes him down. 

“What?” Bill asks, casting him a nervous glance. 

“Nothing.” Holden whispers, “I think I’m having an out-of-body experience.”

“Yeah?” 

Holden nods, clasping both hands over his face. “Oh my God. I came so hard I think I sprained something.”

Bill chuckles. “You better not have ripped your stitches in your neck thrashing around like that.”

Holden pushes himself upright as Bill finishes with the washcloth. He leans into Bill’s chest, and wraps both arms around his neck. 

Setting the cloth aside on the coffee table, Bill rubs a hand down Holden’s back. His skin is soft, prickling with goosebumps at the light caress. 

“You okay?” Bill asks as Holden silently holds onto him for a long moment. 

Holden leans back, a bewildered smile tilting the corner of his mouth. He touches Bill’s cheek, tracing the slope of his cheekbone and the hard edge of his jawline. His eyes sober as he follows that line down to Bill’s chin, and finally his mouth. 

“I think you’ve broken me.” He whispers. 

Bill swallows hard. “Broken you?” 

“I’m never going to be the same.” Holden whispers, casting a trembling gaze up through his eyelashes. “How am I supposed to function now with the thought of you sucking my cock in the back of my mind every day?” 

Bill chokes on a laugh, feeling his face growing hot beneath Holden’s slow caress. 

“How am I supposed to work with you?” Holden laments, his tone teasing yet also half-serious. 

“I don’t know.” Bill says, “But the feeling is mutual.”

“Mm-mm.” Holden murmurs, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

Bill draws in a hitched breath as Holden slides down to his knees on the carpet. He pushes softly between Bill’s thighs, fingers locating the fastening of his trousers. 

Bill leans back to allow the pants to come down under Holden’s tugging. The fabric slides down his thighs and knees, dropping to pool at his ankles. His cock swells obscenely to tent the loose fabric of his boxers, empirical evidence that he couldn’t say no to the offer even if he tried. 

Holden tucks his fingers under the waistband, and peels it back slowly. The boxers come away, leaving him throbbing against cool air, exposed to Holden’s wide, hungry gaze. Holden’s mouth slips halfway open, drawing in a raspy breath. 

Bill clenches his jaw, trying not to moan aloud before Holden has even touched him. 

Holden quickly pulls the boxers down around his ankles with his trousers, and leans forward to clutch Bill’s cock in his hand. 

A whine pierces the back of Bill’s throat as he watches Holden’s soft, pale fingers wrap around the thick, purple-veined girth of his cock. The sensation floods through his veins like fire, the match striking, already burning low. He grasps at Holden’s nape, eagerly dragging him forward; Holden comes willingly, lathering his lips with his tongue just before he opens his mouth wide. 

Bill’s eyes slam shut, his whole body instinctively seizing as Holden’s mouth closes around him. The slick, hot sensation drowns out all else, reducing him down to the taut, tingling quiver between his thighs, the thought of pleasure swimming in a haze of arousal just beyond his reach. 

Holden sucks down on him and moans, sending a ripple of vibrations deep into the flesh. His mouth is quick and sloppy, not holding back the way Bill had, and Bill can do little but moan and hold on tightly. As much as he wants to slow it down and enjoy the moment, he’s too lost in the pleasure of Holden’s mouth ecstatically riding his cock to muster a protest. His hips writhe beneath the caress as Holden sucks and licks, panting little whimpers of satisfaction between mouthfuls of cock that make Bill’s insides lurch hotly with need. 

Bill sinks his fingers into Holden’s hair as the sharp edge of pleasure needles him through the middle, the final, aching grip before pleasure crashes through him. 

“Fuck, Holden.” He rasps, urging his hips up against Holden’s mouth. “That’s it. That’s it.”

Holden sucks just a little faster, applying wet friction that unlocks the repressed need in a matter of seconds. 

The whole world seems to blank to white as Bill’s body seizes, his hips thrusting up against Holden's mouth in a bone-deep spasm. His mouth stretches open, but his throat is paralyzed by overwhelming sensation as orgasm rolls through him. Holden’s mouth comes off of him, hand stroking firmly, quickly, pushing the climax to its peak where Bill can feel his core clamping down hard, expelling hot, slick release across the front of his shirt. 

As the orgasm fades, Bill lapses against the couch in a drained, weak heap. He breathes hard, opening his eyes to stars pricking the borders of his vision. In the aftermath, his body thunders, hardly getting the message that it’s time to slow down and he doesn’t have any strength left in his body. 

Holden wipes his hand on the washcloth, and crawls onto the couch beside Bill to dab at the front of his button-up. 

“I ruined your shirt.” He says. 

Bill slips his eyes open to glimpse Holden smiling down at him. 

“Not just my shirt.” He whispers. 

Holden bites his lower lip to control a forming grin. Bending down, he presses a kiss to Bill’s panting lips. As their mouths separate, he nestles his forehead against Bill’s, and releases a low sigh. 

Bill curls his arm around Holden’s waist, dragging him closer, and Holden submits to the urging. He crawls into Bill’s lap, and snuggles up against his chest, head tucked against his shoulder. 

“We should still talk about this.” Holden murmurs. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, but he doesn’t want to think about the future. He traces the smooth line of Holden’s bare shoulder, watching goosebumps arise. “Not right now.” 

Holden shudders softly as Bill’s fingers travel along the back of his neck, and into his hairline. He doesn’t offer a protest, and they lapse into comfortable silence. 

Bill runs his fingers through Holden’s hair, attaching the texture to reality. He glances down at Holden’s body curled up in his lap, the exact color in his cheeks, the tempo of his breathing, the dark fringe eyelashes pressed shut. There are the two beers warming on the coffee table, beside case files, beside death. There are the drapes and the television, the same as before. Here is Holden’s life, and him inside of it, existing as if this moment has always been and always will be. 

Bill closes his eyes, and savors the unfolding seconds melting into oblivion. For a moment, he could almost swear that time stopped. 

~the end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the last chapter! Parting is such sweet sorrow ❤ But I am very happy with this ending and I hope it lived up to everyone's expectations as well. Thank you to everyone who read and commented every chapter, and to those who supported me over on Tumblr as well. Your kind words, no matter how few, are always greatly appreciated 💕
> 
> I'm [prinxcesskayy](https://prinxcesskayy.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!


End file.
